


Out of the heart and into the darkness

by dioscureantwins



Series: Out of the Heart and Into the Darkness [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, BAMF John, BAMF Mycroft, Emotional Hurt, Grief/Mourning, Jealous Mycroft, M/M, Mindfuck, Minor Character Death, Post Reichenbach, Psychic Violence, Psychological Drama, Sibling Incest, Violence, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-26
Updated: 2013-12-22
Packaged: 2017-12-16 06:51:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 17
Words: 108,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/859142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The worst nightmare is the one in which Sherlock is pushed from a rooftop and Mycroft is pinned powerlessly on the pavement down below, gazing up with his heart in his mouth and watching his brother fall – so full of grace, for one second Mycroft is convinced Sherlock is soaring, soaring high like an eagle, so magnificent …</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. To catch a consulting criminal

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: many, many thanks to the fantastic wellingtongoose. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course  
> Thanks to: the wonderful stardust_made. Her writing induced me to come out here and try some of my own  
> Disclaimer: Sherlock and Mycroft belong to the BBC and Steve Moffat and Mark Gatiss. My profit is the joy I had in writing. Yours, I hope, the joy in reading

“Yes, Mycroft. Now!”

A great thrust of his hips, and Sherlock’s orgasm clutches at Mycroft’s penis, his sperm spilling between them over their fingers entwined on Sherlock’s shaft, gushing forth to force Mycroft’s rush to completion as he spends himself deep inside his brother’s body. For a brief moment that feels like eternity he’s lost. Lost in the shuddering of his muscles, the salty-sweet smell of their flushed skin with the added bitter overtones of Sherlock’s release, the insistent grip of his brother’s surprisingly strong fingers on the biceps of his left arm and the dark voice repeating Mycroft’s name over and over like a magical chant.

***

Later, when their heated skin has cooled down again, they lie side by side. Sherlock has propped himself up on one arm, and pulls on the one cigarette Mycroft permits him during these sessions, because of the delicious fluttering the sight of his brother’s lips shaping themselves around the slender cylinder provokes deep in his belly. He ghosts his hand over his brother’s flank appreciatively as Sherlock reaches over to tip the ash of the cigarette into the jade ashtray perched on Mycroft’s breastbone.

“Let me finish my cigarette first,” Sherlock murmurs, slanting his gaze underneath heavy-lashed lids and Mycroft snorts, momentarily wishing he were ten years younger and ready to act straightaway upon the invitation his brother has so carefully wrapped up as a challenge.

“Tea?” he enquires instead and hands Sherlock the ashtray, not waiting for his reply. He pushes himself up from the mattress and pads over to the sideboard where the tea service stands awaiting him.

“First Flush Darjeeling,” he announces, “arrived fresh from the plantation only two days ago. I do realise you won’t be able to appreciate the subtle flavouring, seeing as how you’ve just laid waste to your taste buds with that dreadful cigarette but it is liquid, and it won’t do you any harm.”

He widens his nostrils to allow his olfactory senses full access to the delicious odour wafting up from the stream of liquid splashing into the precious eggshell porcelain cups. He only brings out the cups for Sherlock’s sparse visits, as he acquired them because the colours of the sugar mountain scene depicted inside the cups is the exact shade of the shimmering grey in Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock extends delicate fingers to accept the cup, proceeding to spoil the elegant tableau – long limbs languishing on the creamy froth of Mycroft’s high-thread count sheets – by downing the exquisite liquid in one gulp before plunking the cup unceremoniously on the bedside table. Mycroft sighs and inwardly rolls his eyes, then reaches for the cup to pour his sibling some more tea. 

“You could at least pretend to enjoy it,” he reproaches, bending down to emphasise his entreaty with a kiss on the lips.

Sherlock spreads his eyes open wide in mock innocence, “but I did enjoy it, Mycroft. Haven’t I left enough evidence on your sheets?”

“Don’t be crass,” Mycroft chides him. “It doesn’t suit you.”

Sherlock’s answer is a grunt and a pat on the mattress with an impatient hand. “Come here,” he says. “There are some things I want to discuss with you.”

Deliberately, Mycroft plumps up a pillow and arranges it against the headboard before reinstalling himself in the bed. Unchastised, his brother smoothes his whole frame against Mycroft’s instantly, outrageous curls tickling Mycroft’s jaw.

“It’s Moriarty,” he says.

Mycroft sips his tea. “I had his surveillance status upgraded at your request only last month.”

“So I understood. As usual your minions are failing at the simple task you set them. My research shows him more active than ever before.”

“My _minions_ report to me they can’t find anything on him which could be interpreted as a breach of any law in this country.”

“That’s because they don’t know where to look. I’ve got tons of evidence against him.”

“Will it hold in court?” Mycroft enquires, already aware of the answer.

Sherlock huffs in exasperation. “You know it won’t, because I could spend ten days trying to explain the underlying pattern to the morons making up the jury, and they still wouldn’t get it.”

“Well, your so-called evidence isn’t strong enough then.”

“Mycroft!” Sherlock bolts upright; the childish look of petulance on his face almost makes Mycroft smile in amusement.

“Don’t you dare laugh at me,” continues Sherlock. “He threatened John. That alone should be enough to send both MI5 and MI6 chasing after him.”

“Sherlock, contrary to your vaguely flattering belief, the United Kingdom is not my personal fiefdom. Rather inconvenient I’ll grant you, but even I can’t change the fact we’re living in a unitary democracy, which rather limits my amount of influence on the daily goings-on on our Isles. No doubt you deleted any information you were taught in school regarding the organisation of our government as irrelevant a long time ago. If you consented to retrieve this tiny fact from your recycle bin we needn’t engage in these tiring discussions so often. Really dear brother, I would be most grateful if you could stash that tiny piece of information into that clever pretty head of yours again.” 

Sherlock’s answer consists of flopping down on the bed with the overly dramatic display of a three-year-old who’s been informed he cannot have another ice cream.

“Please, Sherlock,” Mycroft tells him. “My people started ransacking the natatorium for six hours straight eight minutes after they got your call and all they were rewarded with for their efforts was a sodden memory stick. The memory stick you should have handed me the moment you retrieved it.”

“Oh, shut it, Mycroft. Don’t start that again, you sound like one of Mummy’s records.”

“It pains me to have to point out it was you who chose to initiate this fruitless discussion,” Mycroft corrects Sherlock. At least his brother has the decency to look contrite, even if the expression lingers far too short to Mycroft’s liking. 

“You should have stayed inside the premises to guard that bomb jacket you claim John was forced to wear.”

“Yes, Mycroft, do stop stating the obvious. I’ve told you before, I couldn’t think properly after John collapsed on the floor. He’d been breezing along fine and then he just…” Long tendons in his neck work convulsively as Sherlock swallows and gestures vaguely with his hands.

A smile tugs at the corners of Mycroft’s mouth as he watches his brother’s features ripple under the unfamiliar emotion of anxiety on behalf of another person. 

“You had been driving him relentlessly, Sherlock,” he reminds his sibling. “Small wonder he caved in under the relief of finding his assailant gone. _Your_ reaction disappointed me, normally, you would have kept your wits and sent John out while remaining inside the building yourself. It appears he’s not the only one who has become loyal in a surprisingly short time.”

“Jealous, Mycroft?” Sherlock smirks up at him. Mycroft stares back hard until Sherlock is obliged to blink against the glare.

“Should I be?” he asks in a low voice.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, aghast. “No, of course not, never.” The words tumble out of his mouth in his haste to assure Mycroft.

He nods once. “Good,” is all he says. “Come here.”

Gracefully, Sherlock lifts himself in one fluid movement to straddle Mycroft’s lap. They kiss, genitals rubbing, but for now it’s languid, impish, their tongues flicking lazily while Mycroft’s fingers tangle themselves with a few of the deliciously soft curls on top of Sherlock’s head.

His brother’s right hand strays over his chest, tugging at the ginger curls that spring up there in playful response before dipping down between them, searching, his member stiffening quickly as it brushes against Mycroft’s before Mycroft swats his hand away.

“Let me,” Sherlock murmurs into his mouth but Mycroft firmly keeps Sherlock’s hand at bay.

“No. Not again. You can if you want to, I’ll watch.”

“You’re developing into a dirty old man, Mycroft. Or are you just a fat lazy pig?”

“Neither.” The insults hurled out of his little brother’s lovely mouth ricochet from the armour of his skin. “At least I outgrew the phase of little boy eager to demonstrate the wonders he can work with his ‘thingy’. Come on, show me.”

His younger sibling rises to the challenge, towering over Mycroft as he raises himself on his knees. Locking the steely grey of his eyes with Mycroft’s he reaches for himself and starts stroking with long languorous movements of his whole lower arm. 

“Beautiful,” Mycroft breathes. His praise sends Sherlock’s hand speeding along, entices him into a little dance of thrusting his slender hips in Mycroft’s direction, the glistening eye of his glans peeking brazenly up at him from its cradle of Sherlock’s fingers each time the hips have completed another turn.

“Christ, Sherlock.” The words are barely out of his mouth when the hold of Sherlock’s gaze is broken by his eyelids falling down, shutting Mycroft out. Sherlock gasps and his head falls backward – exposing the long flowing line of his neck to Mycroft – while his hips buck forward to launch great gouts of sperm that land warm and wet on Mycroft’s chest. They cling in the whorls awkwardly before sliding inevitably downwards.

Sagging down on quivering knees, Sherlock topples against Mycroft, a deep groan welling up in his throat.

“You liked that, didn’t you?” Mycroft kisses the top of his brother’s head.

“Oh, shut up, Mycroft,” Sherlock growls, cuddling into him, nipping with sharp teeth at the skin just above Mycroft’s clavicle.

***

Why can’t they always be like that? Merry lovers indulging their passion candidly – frivolously, a few precious hours spent in a frolicsome tryst before they go their separate ways again, each secured in the knowledge of the other’s steadfast love. What a tender world that would be.

In the cruel travesty that is their love affair they end up fighting half the time. Sherlock hissing and snarling at him like an alley cat while he mentally instructs himself to remain aloof – unperturbed – by the verbal onslaught of Sherlock’s words, each of them chosen with deliberate intent to wound, to jab and prod him where it will hurt the most, and succeeding most admirably.

No one knows him as well as Sherlock does. No one is better at getting a rise out of him.

Fifteen minutes after Sherlock slumped so delightfully against his torso he was at the other end of the room, donning his clothes with oblique, abrupt movements, shouting his rage at Mycroft and calling him names.

Enthroned high on the bed Mycroft surveyed his brother in stony silence, not bothering to correct him, nor entreating him to calm down and stay.

Sherlock stormed out, slamming the door shut behind him with a mighty bang and Mycroft sighed, raised himself and reached for his phone.

“Give me the latest on The Professor, please,” he said when Anthea answered his call.

“Sir, there is nothing to report, Sir.”

“Thank you, dear.”

He rang off and tossed the mobile back on the nightstand.

He’d anticipated that answer.

***

They had always been close, right up to the time Mycroft went off to University. Later, after much pondering, he had concluded Sherlock envied the sense of freedom he enjoyed there. Sherlock was forced to traipse around daily in the uniform he openly loathed and despised, and had to bend down to the rules he scoffed at, while Mycroft could do as he pleased.

The fact that doing as Mycroft pleased consisted of working hard to impress his professors and lay down the foundations of his future career appeared to bypass Sherlock completely.

The moment his angry little brother came home for the holidays he wriggled out of the uniform hugging his slender frame enticingly, into a pair of jeans and a Tee-shirt which slobbered around his form. Transformation from darkly glowing golden boy to sombre sprightly demon accomplished, he vanished into the groves on the estate to engage himself in all kinds of unspeakable activities, judging by the state of his clothes as he emerged into the open again at the sound of the supper gong. 

Late one evening – shortly after Mycroft’s twenty-fourth birthday – Sherlock entered Mycroft’s room after a perfunctory knock. He hadn’t waited for a reply. Mycroft was perched on his bed, already in pyjamas, engrossed in his copy of ‘Popular Opinion and Political Dissent in the Third Reich’. Sherlock poised himself against the door after entering; gazing down on Mycroft from the great height he had reached recently, his silk dressing gown – a gift from Mycroft for his seventeenth birthday – drawn tight around his chest.

“What is it, Sherlock?” Mycroft asked when his brother still hadn’t spoken after twenty seconds.

Sherlock licked his lips, a quick flick of his tongue out of the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve been wondering,” he said, his gaze darting around the room, determined to settle anywhere but on Mycroft. “I’ve been wondering what your present signified? I mean…”

He let go of the moorage of the door to start charting his journey across the floorboards of Mycroft’s room, about a yard from his final destination he slowed and floundered to a halt, bobbing on the balls of his feet.

“What do you mean, Sherlock?” Mycroft queried. He looked up and down his sibling, appreciating his appearance in the fine apparel of the purple paisley robe with the plain shawl collar and matching belt. Mycroft had decided upon his gift after much deliberation – desiring Sherlock to be able to wear something nice during the hours he didn’t have to spend in uniform – wasting time he couldn’t really afford in making his choice. Both the colour and the material suited Sherlock perfectly, the gossamer glow of the silk enhancing the creamy softness of his skin, the dark purple deepening the inky blackness of his curls to the sweltering darkness of a sultry summer night.

“I mean…” Sherlock said. He laid his hand next to his throat, at the spot where his neck surged up from the springboard of his clavicles and inclined his head, caressing himself with heavy-lidded eyes like a kitten, purring softly.

“What I mean is this.” The hand fell down and tugged at the belt and in a rustle of silk the gown flowed down from Sherlock’s shoulders into a crumpled heap around his feet. With a dainty step he freed himself from the murex shell in which he had washed up on the shore of Mycroft’s bed. 

“Kiss me. I know you want to,” he said.

***

Mycroft fought, verbally first and later – after he’d tired both Sherlock and himself out with words – bodily. 

His body gave him away, as he’d known all along it would. Triumph sparkled in Sherlock’s eyes as his hand set to work to enslave Mycroft, each flick of his wrist strengthening the shackles he was forging on his brother. His mouth bore down on Mycroft’s in wild kisses without finesse, lacking all tenderness, while he rutted against Mycroft’s thigh. His heat seeped through the fine cotton of Mycroft’s pyjama trousers, and Mycroft writhed to push them further down his legs, inviting the rub of bare skin against skin.

Together they crashed through their orgasms, lips swallowing their grunts.

Sherlock left at sunrise, robe slung over one shoulder, closing the door behind him with an inaudible click of the lock. 

In the evening he returned.

***

Mycroft heaves an inward sigh at the scene awaiting him as he enters the second chamber of the semi-state apartments. Residing on the costly cream brocade of the sofa in front of the mantelpiece is Sherlock, clad in nothing but a sheet.

_Still in a huff, then._

At least John looks entirely at ease, no lingering after-effects from his confrontation with the consulting criminal. The good doctor actually has the temerity to quip a response when Mycroft chastises them mildly for behaving like a pair of schoolboys, causing a deep rumble to rise from Sherlock’s chest, which is all good and well.

From the start they’ve agreed upon the construction of a distorting screen to guard their liaison against the probing eyes of a disapproving or, in Sherlock’s terms, ‘dull and boring’, society. Together they have orchestrated the idea of this great enmity existing between them, working hard over the years at refining their little game, exulting in the verbal warfare, saluting the other with a deferential wriggle of the eyebrow after an exceptionally deft riposte. The rules of their assault are clear: no touching in public, no hint or referral whatsoever to what happens between them behind the locked door of Mycroft’s bedroom. 

Such is the nature of the arrangement Sherlock and he have struck up and – to Mycroft’s quiet astonishment and relief, but perhaps his brother is right and they are indeed surrounded by idiots with funny little brains – it has come off surprisingly fine so far. What does help is Sherlock’s consistent determination to get on Mycroft’s nerves, and the fact he is succeeding beautifully in doing that far too often.

“We are in Buckingham Palace,” Mycroft reminds Sherlock, “the very heart of the British nation.” Sherlock doesn’t react at all. _Oh, for crying out loud._ “Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on,” he thunders.

Sherlock’s answer is a shrug of his shoulders.

“What for?”

Mycroft grits his teeth. “Your client.”

The little devil that is his brother doesn’t even look at him, but he’s clearly enjoying himself as he asks: “And my client is?”

Mycroft secretly loathes the man who has staged his histrionic entrance into the room at exactly that particular moment.

Half a minute later and Sherlock has goaded him into stepping on the end of the sheet trailing after his brother as he sweeps grandly out of the room – and he’s so up in arms he’s past caring this might reveal to an admiring audience what’s only his to fondle and appreciate – thus blocking the dramatic exit of his sibling after the proficient demonstration of his skill in stepping on Mycroft’s toes.

However, his revenge, once they’re all seated in a more civilised arrangement, is sweet in the extreme. His hit below the waistline – their refusal to wear a belt being one of the few things they have in common – gets him a most satisfactory wounded gaze from Sherlock.

He resolves instantly to make it up to Sherlock. 

Later.

***

“From now on you will stay out of this,” he tells Sherlock.

“Oh, will I?”

“Yes Sherlock. You will.”

The story Sherlock and John conveyed to him of their meeting with that atrocious woman has shaken him so profoundly he forgot his upbringing for a moment, yapping at Mrs Hudson to shut up. The minute the invective falls from his mouth he stands aghast. Mycroft is extremely grateful for Mrs Hudson’s existence and her – alas loquacious – fussing over his brother. Bawling at the good-hearted elderly lady is a severe breach of all the rules both his parents and his school installed in him and he’s appalled at his own breach of civil conduct.

Never before has his dear little brother – his lover – walked from such a peril and Mycroft was the one to send him right into the thick of it. The sturdy foundations of his world have commenced to crumble beneath his feet at the revelation.

Something similar must never occur again. His sibling may thrive on danger but the idea of him getting seriously hurt or – God forbid – ending up dead in one of these haunts is too much for Mycroft to bear.

Mycroft is perfectly aware calamity may snatch Sherlock out of Mycroft’s grasp any day. Some nights he gasps awake in sweat-soaked sheets, having witnessed with a sickening clarity of detail how a bus knocks down his brother, or he is strangled slowly by a giant sadist assassin. At other times Mycroft bursts upon the scene to discover Sherlock tortured, abused and – after days of suffering and humiliation – garrotted by a gang of international drug smugglers. 

The worst nightmare is the one in which Sherlock is pushed from a rooftop and Mycroft is pinned powerlessly on the pavement down below, gazing up with his heart in his mouth and watching his brother fall – so full of grace, for one second Mycroft is convinced Sherlock is soaring, soaring high like an eagle, so magnificent …

Mycroft closes his eyes to ward off the image of the inevitable impact as Sherlock’s body hits the ground.

***

Tangled up with his trepidation is an even more sickening sensation, all the more vigorous for its familiarity… jealousy.

The helpless, oblivious little boy that is his brother doesn’t even have an inkling himself, but Miss Irene Adler has hooked him, sunk her talons into his skin and sunk them deep. 

The realisation doesn’t stop him from being extremely annoyed with Sherlock for messing up his carefully laid out plans for his ‘Flight of the Dead’. 

***

“I told you we ought to do something about Moriarty, didn’t I?” 

They’re stretched out on Mycroft’s bed, all their unworthy squabbling drowned in post-coital bliss. 

Miss Jennifer Plain, née Irene Adler, is busy discovering new challenges in the farming of sheep on New Zealand’s South Island together with her Kate. She really is an admirably versatile woman. Mycroft is prepared to hand her that; now she’s so conveniently out of his way. 

Exultant at having got rid of her at last, he even let Sherlock keep her phone. Sentiment is not really his brother’s area so the gratefulness expressed in his thank-you-text moved Mycroft deeply.

_Keep her safe._

She will be as long as she’ll be satisfied with the excitement of cracking a whip on the back of her horse while roaming the generous amount of land the British government has presented her with. Should she decide to wield the crop in a different capacity, she’s free to do so… at the cost of her life. Miss Plain had nodded her understanding. 

“Thank you, Mr Holmes,” she’d said in that husky voice.

The intended recipient of her message lies sprawled comfortably on top of Mycroft, round chin resting on his hands, treating Mycroft to the fathomless clarity of his irises.

Mycroft brings up his hand to cup Sherlock’s cheekbone and his sibling nuzzles up into the gesture, all the while keeping his steady gaze on Mycroft.

“You don’t have to drag that up again,” he reprimands Sherlock, stressing his reproof with a scrape of his nail down to the corner of Sherlock’s mouth. “You’d better thank Miss Adler for providing me with the scraps of evidence needed to order his arrest. What do you want me to do when he’s in custody?”

“Tell him everything there is to know about me. Well, except for…” He gestures between them.

Mycroft swallows hard.

“Why? What strategy will that serve?”

“It will drive him desperate to chase me after you’ve let him go, which you will do after three months. He will walk into my trap, allowing me to bring him down by staging my suicide while the eyes of the world are upon me. When I’m dead I can dismantle his organisation unhindered by the usual impediments because I won’t exist.”

While revealing his plan his face has lighted up in ecstasy, an enchanting view, yet the sight doesn’t gladden Mycroft’s heart. Trepidation grips his neck in an icy clasp and makes him lash out at Sherlock.

“This must be the most singularly stupid proposal I’ve heard since someone suggested we aid our bigger sister in invading Afghanistan. Quite apart from the impact your death will have on those nearest and dearest to you – a detail you’ve obligingly deleted from your hard drive no doubt – I fail to see its advantage over a more direct approach. You’ve let your propensity for the dramatic supersede plain common sense in concocting this sophomoric idea.”

He notices his voice has risen hysterically during his diatribe. Halfway through he tries to rein himself in, willing himself to _calm down_ , but it’s no use. Sherlock’s scheme is the stuff of his worst nightmare and of course the great, bloody – gorgeous – _idiot_ is blithely unaware of the fact. Maybe Mycroft should have told him. On the other hand, if Sherlock was interested, he might have deduced it.

Breathing deeply he draws air into his lungs, thankful for the soothing influence of fresh particles of air on his overheated brain. From the shelf of his chest Sherlock gazes at him serenely.

“Don’t be mad,” he says, simply, and he brings his head forward to kiss Mycroft on the lips.

“I understand even you can’t grasp the genius of my idea straightaway. Just think it over, will you?”

***

Mycroft thinks it over and after a week he agrees to apprehend Moriarty as he wants the man off of the streets anyway. Once the consulting criminal is stashed away safely behind bars Mycroft will have plenty of time to talk Sherlock out of his hare-brained scheme.

His people pick Moriarty from the unlikely surroundings of The Somerville in Torquay when he’s about to tuck into his scone with clotted cream and strawberry jam. In the photographs it looks singularly delicious. Mycroft almost feels like apologising to him as he steps into the bare cell where Moriarty sits locked away because it doesn’t do to step between a man and his guilty treat.

One look at the man congeals the glib phrases of atonement in his mouth. The colour of Moriarty’s eyes bears a resemblance to the warm molten chocolate of the _dame blanche_ Mycroft indulges in in his favourite Parisian _brasserie_ during his visits to the French capital on behalf of the British government. The flaw in the comparison is the temperature; the chocolate sauce at Le Train Bleu is served at a delectable eighty degrees, the warmth of Moriarty’s eyes roams the confines around absolute zero.

This is the man who thwarted his masterful plan: months and years of planning finished. This is the man who turned John into a walking bomb and most of all this is the man who threatened the person most dear to Mycroft. 

Deep loathing and absolute hatred do battle inside Mycroft’s chest as he sizes up Moriarty.

When he steps out of the cell again after an hour both have been vanquished by the third party that cropped up uninvited during the interview, a guest even less welcome than the uneasiness he experienced during his discussion with Sherlock. Suddenly it had arrived, all the more impressive for its lack of a battle dress: naked fear. 

***

“Look here, Sherlock. I could have arranged free access to the whole of the Baskerville plant for you. You need only have asked. Barrymore is an old acquaintance of mine; quite apart from the fact that I’m the one ultimately responsible for the smooth administration of the test programs we’re running there for the greater good of the general public.”

“Oh shut it, Mycroft,” Sherlock answers, impatient fingers tugging at the knot in Mycroft’s tie, “this was more fun.”

“You’re definition of _fun_ diverges rather from mine, I’m afraid.”

“Not always.” Sherlock has freed Mycroft’s neck from the encumbrance of tie and collar and touched the bared flesh with his lips, down in the soft nook where his neck meets his shoulder.

This shouldn’t arouse him for he’s genuinely angry with Sherlock. Regrettably, as ever his fortitude is nothing but molten wax in Sherlock’s beautiful hands. Before he knows it they’re both down on their knees on the mattress and he’s laving his brother’s cleft, prying with his tongue deep inside Sherlock’s hole – _eating him_ – and Sherlock is squirming and pushing his delicious backside into Mycroft’s face and growling for more.

His demands must be obeyed for Mycroft has never been able to deny his little brother anything and soon Sherlock is riding him, shoulder blades rippling against Mycroft’s chest, Mycroft’s arms cradling him. Sherlock throws back his head and rests it on Mycroft’s shoulder – riotous curls tickling up Mycroft’s nose. The deep groan rising from his throat when his seed starts spilling over their merged fingers sends sweet shudders of delight straight from Mycroft’s ears to his groin. 

He helps Sherlock through his orgasm, kissing the sharp line of his jaw and his cheekbone and whispering words of encouragement into the whorl of his ear and when Sherlock is empty and soft and pliant, Mycroft pushes him down into the mattress and humps him like a hound.

***

“What does he do? What is he like?”

Cradling his teacup close to his chest Mycroft ponders the question. Next to him Sherlock blows a perfectly round circle of smoke.

“I find him… rather frightening,” Mycroft says at last. “He just sits there, staring into the darkness. The only thing that makes him open up... that gets him to talk… is the information I feed him. I’ve already given him more than I would have disclosed to anyone else in a different case, be it friend or foe…”

“He’s clever,” Sherlock admits and Mycroft is convinced he detects a hint of genuine admiration in his brother’s voice. It’s reluctant, but it’s there.

Mycroft whips his head around on the pillow, sending tea splashing over his chest.

“Careful,” Sherlock warns him and inclines his head to lick up the liquid. His delicate pink tongue laps at the tiny rivulets, making Mycroft twist in tender torment. 

“Still,” Sherlock sits up once Mycroft’s chest is laundered from the impurities of orange pekoe, “it’s rather strange. In the pool he kept nattering at us, boasting about his accomplishments, all the great crimes he was involved in. Well, he was expecting to do away with us, of course.

He snorts. “He must have concluded you’ve got too much against him and now he’s biding his time. If you’re happy to jabber away at him about the one subject that really interests him – that’s me – he’s not going to stop you. Frankly, if I were in his position I’d do the same. Oh, wonderful, just like I’d conceived.”

Sherlock looks extremely satisfied with himself at the end of his little lecture. Mycroft shakes his head in exasperation.

“I’d rather someone else was fascinated by you,” he says. “To have you be the obsession of the world’s most dangerous criminal isn’t exactly conducive to my health.”

“Nonsense, you have me to keep you shipshape and fit as a fiddle. You’ve lost weight recently, half a pound from your hips. It suits you.”

Had the circumstances been different Mycroft would have been extremely gratified with the compliment. Right now he finds he couldn’t care less. In an impulse he grabs Sherlock’s hand.

“Sherlock, listen to me. Let’s stop this, please. The man is insane. He’s truly dangerous. Look… I have… we have… Well, I can make him disappear and no one but me and you and two other people will ever be any the wiser. You needn’t even be cognisant of the where and how if you’d rather not. I sincerely consider that a more advisable route to the unravelling of his felonious empire than the journey you want to embark upon. It’s too hazardous. Besides, only think of the grief John will have to live through, and Mrs Hudson, and that Detective Inspector who was so kind as to offer to look after you in Devon, what was his name…”

Sherlock huffs, “Lestrade? Yeah, well, it might do him good to have to blunder along without me, teach him to appreciate all the work I take out his hands.” He pouts his lips for a moment – _a pulchritudinous pout_ – before continuing: “John and Mrs Hudson will breeze along perfectly fine, Mycroft. There’s a new program on the telly that’s apparently even more fascinating than that inane Connie Prince show and I’m getting fed up with their insistence in watching it in _our_ living room. So they can sit and watch telly to their heart’s content while I’m off doing something useful.”

“That…” Mycroft says, and he shapes his tongue and teeth deliberately around each word as he lets it fall out of his mouth with the intention to send it crashing down on the self-centred _brat_ that is his brother. “Of all the brazen, impertinent, _inconsiderate_ speeches I’ve ever heard you make – and alas, I have been as unfortunate as to have to sit quietly stewing through many of those – this must be the most aggressively, calculatingly and hideously _spiteful_ one to have flowed from your lips during the whole of your life.”

“Mycroft...” begins Sherlock.

“No.” Mycroft hisses. “No. You wanted John. You said you needed a friend. You sat here complaining and _snivelling_ and lamenting my company wasn’t enough to keep you occupied. Can you imagine how gratifying it was for me to have to listen to your whines? No, of course you can’t. Because you never stop to reflect what someone else’s feelings might be. It’s the bane of my life that I love you – yes I love you, Sherlock – and desire for you to be content. What could I do, but tell you to go ahead and find yourself a friend? Someone who would be foolish enough, and reckless enough to choose living with you. So you stumbled upon John in Bart’s.”

Reaching over to the bedside table he whisks up the cheap plastic mobile he’s acquired for the exclusive use of communicating with his sibling and starts scrolling through his messages.

“You texted me from the mortuary and I still have the text.”

Some more scrolling results in his phone retrieving the message from its electronic memory. He turns toward his brother. “Shall I quote it to you?

_Found him._  
Ex-army doctor. War hero.  
Arrange interview tomorrow evening. 

You’re fully aware I can never deny you anything, Sherlock. Useful knowledge you’re proficient at abusing. That evening I had to attend a rather important meeting with the Economic Affairs Committee – something to do with employment and enabling ordinary people to earn their daily breath and thus of no interest to you – but off I went at your behest and had Anthea arrange the whole set-up.”

“You were marvellous, Mycroft.” Sherlock attempts to appease him, crawling closer.

“Don’t you start inveigling me! Right now I’m seriously annoyed with you. Doctor John Watson is one of the most decent people to have ever walked this earth and you’re not fit to be his friend. The only bad quality the good doctor might be accused of is his severe lack of judgment in choosing his friends. Although he’s been living with you for months, and must be thoroughly aware of your less lovely traits, one of which you’ve been proving to me during the course of our little discussion, the man still considers himself to be your friend.”

“He _is_ my friend, Mycroft, you know that!” Sherlock defends himself hotly, swishing his hand for emphasis. “I wouldn’t know what I’d do if I lost him.”

“My point precisely.” Even Mycroft Holmes, one of Harrow’s worst football players, can’t bungle that goal, seeing as how the ball is lying but a yard from the goal posts and the defending players are nowhere in sight. 

Sherlock throws him a look of pique mingled with sincere respect. 

“Point taken,” he says quietly.

“Good.”

Pushing himself up on his hands, the long flowing line of his back arching, Sherlock rearranges himself next to Mycroft, forearms dangling from the elbows he rests on his drawn-up knees.

“Listen,” he begins and falls silent. His head sinks a little lower, neck bending under the weight of all the plotting and analysing, the disturbing mental energy set forth by emotions. Mycroft extends his hand to caress the stretch of Sherlock’s nape, fingers exploring the fringe of silky curls. Their soft brush against his fingertips sends ripples of pleasure shooting up his arm.

“Listen,” Sherlock repeats. “John will want to come with me but we both know that’s impossible. In this, I’ll have to work alone. One man can slink away into the shadows, two men stand out in the searchlights. He’ll become a target …”

Mycroft doesn’t comment, his fingers scratching gently at the soft skin of Sherlock’s neck. Never before has his brother been so thoughtful of the possible needs and safety of others.

“… He’ll slow me down. I must do this on my own. You’ll be with me of course…” A swift glance at the phone. “John won’t agree to stay behind and even if he would, he’s a bad actor. They’d only have to look at him to know I wasn’t dead. No, he will have to be watching when I fall; he must witness my suicide to convince them I’ve passed away…”

He throws himself back against the pillows in a grand gesture of despair, grasps for Mycroft’s hand that has been send flying by his sudden motion to clasp it against his chest, and gazes up at his brother with earnest, clear eyes.

“Only imagine,” he murmurs, “John’s instant happiness the minute I walk into the flat again. And all together, I will be gone for just a few months.”

***

“Molly will do it. I told you, didn’t I? And she’s got the perfect body. I’ve contacted McReilley, he’s heading over to the hospital as we speak. Remember to pay him, won’t you? A hundred quid, like we agreed upon.”

“Yes, Sherlock, thank you for reminding me. Taking the small details others are likely to forget into account is in fact a part of my job description, should such a document exist.”

Sherlock laughs. “Oh, shut it, Mycroft. I realise you’re the grand master of intrigue and juggling the impossible. Calm down, we’ve talked this through endlessly, nothing can go wrong.”

“You won’t babble away your nervousness by aggravating mine, Sherlock. Did you thank the obliging Miss Hooper for her kindness in agreeing to aid you in staging your farewell to the world? She’s risking a lot on your behalf, after all.”

“Her eyes lit up when I asked her to dine with us tomorrow evening.”

“Tomorrow? You were going to ask her tonight!”

Sherlock laughs again, a deep rumble that bubbles up from his chest. “I changed my mind. I’ve other plans for the evening.”

“Sherlock…”

“Hush, we’ll both need to relax after having lived through today’s atrocities. Personally, I know of no better way.”

Mycroft shouldn’t feel such a jolt of pleasure coursing through his veins upon hearing those words but the sad fact is that it does, the warmth settling deep in his groin. He swallows convulsively, shortly unable to speak.

“Look,” he says at last when he trusts the steadiness of his voice again. “I assume John will storm into the premises any minute now. Just be very, very careful, Sherlock. I’ll be waiting for you at Little Britain, around the corner.”

“Yes, yes, for God’s sake, Mycroft! I’m not some stupid five-year-old that must be instructed a hundred and twenty-eight times what to do and where to go.”

“No, you’re worse,” he bites back. “Just… take care, will you?”

“Jesus,” Sherlock exclaims, thoroughly disgusted, and disconnects the call.

Mycroft sits staring at the tiny screen for twelve seconds, his hand tightened around the plastic casing.

When John walks into the room five minutes later it’s surprisingly easy to pretend Sherlock’s fate is of no great consequence to him.

***

He arrives in Smithfield far too early. Slowly he guides the vehicle along West Smithfield, once, twice. He takes in the bus stop, the phone booth, and the people walking along the street, no one obviously loitering about. An ambulance comes screeching around the corner with the siren on at full blast and people halt to look, heads turning, eager for the excitement, before deciding there’s nothing to see, and continuing on their way. 

Through the side window he flicks up his gaze at Bart’s rooftop but of course all his eyes encounter is the – elaborately refitted – lintel. Overhead a helicopter circles and he suddenly thinks he ought to have arranged for one of those – he’s got dozens of them at his disposal and he’s accountable to no one for the tasks they’re put on. 

If he were up in the air in a helicopter he would be able to monitor what was happening on that rooftop – he steals a peek at his watch – right this minute, instead of fuming in powerless dignity in the confined prison cell of his car. He’d have the machine swooping around in wide circles to prevent it from raising suspicion in the creepy-cagey mind of that sleek little serpent while it was spitting its venom at his brother. The moment Sherlock would appear to be in serious danger he’d order the marine at his side to take aim and shoot the heinous creature assaulting the one person in the world Mycroft Holmes genuinely cares about.

Mycroft shudders and lets go of the steering wheel for a moment to pinch the skin beneath his left shirt cuff to spur himself back into the reality of the here and now. It won’t do for him – the careful cool-headed strategist, the imperturbable iceman – to lose his cool in this hour when it’s more important than ever he keeps it. They agreed upon this scenario, talked it over – fought it over – and so far everything Sherlock has predicted would happen, has actually come to pass.

This evening he will feed Sherlock strawberries with clotted cream fresh from Borough market. He’s had them delivered for dessert, but if Miss Hooper isn’t going to delight them with her company he knows of a better way to put them to use. Leisurely, deliberately, he will dip each tiny delicate fruit into the bowl of cream and use it to brush a creamy trace of sweetness from the dimple between Sherlock’s collarbones along the statuesque column of his neck up to that glorious puffed-up strawberry that is his brother’s mouth – ripe and fresh and Mycroft’s for the picking. 

He pinches himself again. His nerves must be in shreds or his thoughts wouldn’t run away with him, up every undesirable back street and alleyway this part of London has on offer.

He’s about to start on his third round when he spots an empty parking space on his left and on an impulse decides sitting in a parked car is less conspicuous than circling the same roundabout repeatedly. From this position, if he cranes his neck, he can watch the street in front of the hospital. Seven minutes and thirty-four seconds later a taxi speeds out of Hosier Lane, skidding to a halt in front of to the bus stop. John jumps out.

The leather of the steering wheel feels unpleasantly wet against his skin. He fumbles in the compartment in front of the passenger seat for a Kleenex and wipes his hands. Another Kleenex is put to use to wipe the steering wheel. Both Kleenexes litter the floor once he’s done to be cleared away by government personnel. With dry hands he grips the wheel again to swerve the car out of the parking lot, gliding away from the tragedy that is about to unfold. In ten minutes Sherlock will be dead to the world and stepping into the safety of the car.

In Little Britain the parking space Sherlock and he had determined upon is taken up by a white van. Mycroft frowns. He has told Anthea to ensure this space to be empty and she’d nodded pertly to indicate his order was noted. He studies the van, it’s a different brand from the ones they use for operations.

The space in front of the van is empty.

He honks the horn, once. Nothing happens.

Small pinpricks of unease start itching in Mycroft’s neck. He refuses to let them unfurl into a ribbon sneaking down his spine. Instead he opens the door, unfolds himself out of his car and walks up to the van. 

The vehicle is empty, the driver’s cabin is a mess of discarded candy bar wrappers, porn magazines, drink cartons and even a – used – condom. Wrinkling his nose Mycroft backs away and seats himself into his vehicle again. 

Something is wrong here. Never before has Anthea failed to follow his wishes to the letter.

With a furrowed brow Mycroft fishes in his jacket pocket for his phone.  
Anthea doesn’t answer until the third ring. The highly unusual occurrence sends beads of sweat into the creases on his forehead.

“My dear…” he begins when she finally picks up the line, but she interrupts him with an uncharacteristic pitch of anxiety in her voice.

“Sir, a matter of international crisis has arisen, sir. You must return here at once…”

“Calm down, my dear,” he gently chides her when the air is ripped apart suddenly by a loud honking behind them. Irked, Mycroft whips up his head. In the driving mirror he detects another white van behind them, engine roaring impatiently. The driver, a bald, tattooed imbecile with two big fake diamonds flashing in his earlobes sits gesticulating wildly and shouting abuse at them out of a salivating gullet distorted by hatred.

Exasperated, Mycroft indicates with his hand for the man to wait until he has finished his call. How is it possible everything has gone pear-shaped all of a sudden? He balls his hand into a tight fist, driving his nails deep into the soft flesh of his palm. 

“…thousands of people are fleeing the country…” Anthea wheezes into his ear. In the driver mirror the door of the van behind his car is thrown open.

Inwardly cursing Mycroft throws the phone onto the passenger seat and manoeuvres his vehicle into the slot before the parked van. 

The door of the other van closes and with another aggressive blast of its horn it tears past him. Briefly, Mycroft debates the advisability of swivelling out into the road again but decides against it. In front of them ordinary family cars in the garish colours the general public appears to fancy these days stretch away. The sleek government car stands out, conspicuously tucked between the flotsam of modern consumerism and that – massively annoying – white van. Sherlock will just have to use the eyes in his head. Thank god he’s rather good at observing.

He reaches for his phone and brings it up to his ear.

“Tell the members of the Foreign Affairs Select Committee I will be with them shortly,” he instructs Anthea. “You make your way there and don’t forget…”

Out of the corner of his eye he detects a movement behind him. He flicks his gaze up towards the rear-view mirror and watches as another gross hooligan comes swaddling up the pavement. The man halts next to the door of the van, swings it open and starts to haul his bulk up into the vehicle, which sags pathetically on its right front wheel under the weight it finds itself encumbered with all of a sudden.

The engine revs up. An insistent deep bass beat starts rocking the vehicle and torturing the ears of innocent by passers. Heaving a sigh of relief Mycroft tosses his mobile aside and puts one hand on the steering wheel and his other on the clutch, ready to wield the car into the empty slot the minute the white van has pulled out.

With another insultingly loud boom the van spins out into the road. The empty slot is filled immediately by another vehicle that has sprung up out of nowhere, a big sleek black government Bentley, the spitting image of the car Mycroft is sitting in. 

Inside his chest his heart has set up an insistent rhythm, reverberating against his ribcage. His hands are gripping the steering wheel so hard it feels as if they’ve been soldered onto it. 

“What the…” he begins.

“Sir…” Anthea quivers up from the phone.

That minute Sherlock swirls around the corner, running on long legs. He makes straight for the line of cars and without looking around him opens up the door of the back seat of the car behind Mycroft’s and starts sliding in, the look of satisfaction on his face informing Mycroft of all he needs to know, opening his lips to embark on the thrilling story he has to convey.

The door falls shut and the car flashes out of the space and speeds away, leaving Mycroft behind to stare open-mouthed after the vehicle that has just abducted his brother. His line of vision is broken by a line of three merrily coloured family cars that choose to glide past at that particular moment, blocking his exit. 

By the time he can finally, finally pull away from the kerb the black vehicle far ahead of him is already flashing its light to turn into King Edward Street.

***


	2. One shouldn't dig a hole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stop it, he commands himself. This is _bloody_ useless. Sherlock probably is in severe danger but he’s sent the most capable man in the Kingdom hunting after the vehicle that abducted him and that’s all Mycroft can do for now. What he should concentrate on is finding out how it is possible that Sherlock’s carefully concocted plan spiralled so disastrously out of their control.

Out of the high dome of a sky so proverbially azure it shouldn’t be real, the sun beats down on Mycroft who is perched on a rocky outcrop rising high above the sea. 

The rays of the sun warm the air trapped between the straw boater on his head and his scalp but he doesn’t feel hot thanks to the breeze that comes wafting up to him over the gently undulating waves of the glassy green ocean spread out beneath the rocks.

Hands in the pockets of his comfortable slacks he stands looking down at Sherlock who is swimming down below in the crystal clear water. Beneath Sherlock’s pale form Mycroft can easily discern the dark rocks of the sea bed and the groves of seaweed, gently swaying with the ebb and flow of the surf beating against the cliffs.

Sherlock pivots onto his back and lets himself bob up and down on the waves, content to drift with the current with eyes closed.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls him, waving his right arm. 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he looks up, recognises Mycroft and smiles widely, white teeth sparkling, his glasz eyes – which are the colour of the waters surrounding him – radiating love. He raises his arm in salute and shouts something Mycroft can’t catch but reads as an invitation to come down and join him.

Hastening over towards the edge of the small plateau where a ladder of steep steel stairs leads down the bluff, onto the white shingle beach, Mycroft loses sight of Sherlock. He bounces down the staircase, the steel ringing under his feet, and steps onto the pebbles of the beach, his hands already flicking open the buttons of his shirt. 

The sea in front of the beach is empty. Where Mycroft had expected to find Sherlock walking out of the water – shimmering rivulets of water running out of his hair and off his limbs leaving a pattern of sparkling salt diamonds on his skin – his eye encounters miles and miles of rippling waves instead, murmuring invitingly, without so much as a stick to mar the calm pattern they’ve perfected through the ages. 

Frowning, Mycroft wriggles out of his shirt, the fabric of the sleeves clinging to his arms, encumbering his movements.

“Sherlock,” he cries. What game is his brother playing at? How annoyingly just like him to dive down beneath the waves just as Mycroft arrived on the beach, only to alarm him and laugh at him when he comes shooting up out of the water unexpectedly.

“Sherlock,” he hollers, angry with his sibling for the low trick he’s playing Mycroft. With squinted eyes he scans the sea’s surface while toeing off his shoes and stripping down his trousers. Sherlock’s dark head should break the surface now. He can’t possibly hold his breath much longer.

The boater hits the shingle, soon followed by Mycroft’s boxer briefs and he runs down the beach towards the gentle surf, panic vying with anger. His brother’s name is a long shriek from his mouth. His right foot is the first to enter the water and he’s surprised to find it agreeably warm, too hot almost, the temperature that of a hot shower, around thirty-seven degrees. 

Startled, he pulls his foot out of the water to discover the moisture doesn’t start running down the arch and his toes but clings to it, sticky and warm.

His gaze travels downwards past the long line of his body, the coppery curls on his chest, the gentle curve of his belly, the swathe of bright ginger hair in his crotch, his nakedly dangling manhood, the pale thighs with the sparse orange hairs. Down and down it glides past all those orangey-pale tones and whitey-pale tones and onto his foot, which stands out bright red against the whiteness of his ankle and the pebbles of the beach, covered in blood.

***

With a gasp Mycroft jolts awake, heart a roaring engine pistoning away inside his chest, his throat and ears aching from all the screaming. He pushes himself up with his fists, sits coughing in the clammy coldness of the room. Slowly, his sight adjusts itself to the darkness surrounding him, hitching onto the sharp line thrown by the moonlight through a gap between the heavy velvet curtains.

Just a dream, but _hell_ , what a terrible nightmare. For a minute he’d been convinced he was about to enter a sea of blood, Sherlock’s blood, released to mingle with the waters when he was taken down by a great white shark that had reared up out of the deep to grab him, and kill him and snatch him away, back into the darkness where the monster lived.

_Christ! What a dark and winding place lies brooding inside his head to…_

That instant the last shreds of sleep’s blissful veil are torn away from his befuddled mind, and Mycroft groans, and buries his face in his hands. 

For his brother _is_ gone. Dead, most likely. Or if he is not, more is the pity, for he would probably be better off in that state. 

Sherlock dead and lying in a grave. The thought is inconceivable. His beautiful little brother –the person most dear to Mycroft, his beloved _sublime_ lover – reduced to nothing but a withering corpse. His sunken eyes liquefying, the mesmerising colours of the irises dissolved into a grey sludge; his generous lips shrunk back to a horrid grin around the pearly-white teeth which would be all that would last to prove the body resting in the coffin was indeed Sherlock’s. 

A coffin. Oh God, if only he were lying in a coffin.

Hardly likely. The people that had got him won’t have granted Sherlock the dignity of so much as a shroud. Either he’s food for the worms in a shallow grave in some forlorn wood, or his eyes have already been picked out by the gulls patrolling the garbage dump where his broken body has been ditched to rot away, or – and this is the most horrifying of the death scenarios his infinitely ingenious mind has fabricated to haunt him without mercy – he stands swaying in the currents of the ocean like an exotic soft coral, cuffed ankles chained to a great block of concrete.

Still, Mycroft should be grateful, oh, he would be beholden to the person who would inform him that his brother is, indeed, dead, for he doesn’t dare think of the alternative.

Except that, of course, he already has.

With a sob – grinding the heels of his palms into his eyes to sabotage the slide projector that keeps rotating to reveal the gaudy images of the torture scenes – Mycroft collapses against the pillows. If he’s the one to cave in under the idea of Sherlock’s nails ripped out, not all at once, mind you, but slowly, _torturously_ slow, granting Sherlock plenty of time to recover, to find his composure again, before the assault on another digit, he can’t even begin to experience what it must be like for his brother. The handy close up that’s projected on the inside of Mycroft’s eyelids shows Sherlock’s face disfigured into a snarl as he lies grunting, swallowing his screams, refusing to give them the satisfaction to hear him beg and cry as the next nail is wrenched from its bed… 

***

_Oh God, oh God, oh God!_

_Just look at him, the omniscient uncrowned King of England, reduced to an abject, impotent, shivering,_ useless _mess._

***

For the fact is that Mycroft Holmes, the man from whose Whitehall room fan out all the corridors of power in the United Kingdom to twist and snake their way around the world and find their end on the top of his desk again, the man who’s cognisant of more secret wheelings and dealings than any other man in the Western hemisphere, has no idea where his brother is. 

***

His last words to his brother were a reprimand. They could have been a declaration of his love. If only they _had been_ so. For now he’s lost his chance to tell Sherlock he loves him. 

Lost it forever. Or at least for as long as his life lasts.

He’s exasperated with Sherlock half the time, genuinely angry at his fickleness, his brazenness, his irresponsibility. But he loves him most of all. More than he loved their admirable parents and the warm home they created for both of them. More than he loves his position as one of the prime movers of the highly classified data that is hurtled daily though the glass fibre cables lining the corridors of power. 

To attain his place in the centre of the web he has fought with steadfast determination, an uphill battle with his right hand bound on his back in which he has had to vanquish vastly resourceful foes who had been initiated into the art of devious manipulation before he was even born. 

The slaughter has been relentless, distinguished careers toppling as he slashed with his sword, the edge of which he’d honed with cunning and intrigue, to leave a mass of wasted human enterprise in his wake. On his way up he had solved every riddle, managed to breach every massive wall that arose suddenly in his path, as if he were a character in one of those computer games young people wasted their time and mental energy on these days, spurting on towards the next level, to end up as the triumphant conqueror of Whitehall.

Still panting, he had surveyed the scene from his high and lonely mountain top; he had been content with the world and everything in it.

Now he would willingly relinquish it all if only he could hold his brother in his arms one last time. Hold him close and tell him, in the simplest terms imaginable, “I love you, Sherlock.”

***

“Sir?”

Anthea’s voice rouses him from the inert stupor into which the sight of Sherlock sliding into that vehicle and speeding away had catapulted him. The little bright green car at the head of their line vacillates on the corner of King Edward Street for what feels like an interminable time. The driver of the banana yellow vehicle behind it is sounding his horn, loud blasts tearing through the rumble of the traffic flowing in front of them. The woman in the green car throws her hands into the air, gestures wildly at the packed mass blocking her entry. 

Unforgivably, Mycroft has already lost one and a half precious minutes to this ludicrous slowness and the wayward whimsies of the London traffic. His consternation has gracefully delivered the vehicle in which his brother is being abducted with an advantage of one and a half minutes that might prove fatal. Animated into alertness again, Mycroft grapples the phone.

“Anthea. I do apologise,” he wheezes in the smoothest voice he can muster. “I’m afraid a slight misunderstanding regarding the use of a mobile in these premises occurred. The unpleasant quandary has, however, been agreeably concluded to the mutual satisfaction of all the parties concerned. I kindly request you to resort to text as a means of communication, should anything untoward happen during the next forty-five minutes. Otherwise I’ll meet you in Parliament.”

Having raised a, pathetically thin but it will have to do, smoke screen, he ends the call and solders his thumb onto the zero to speed dial the number he resorts to in the exiguous instances even someone as almighty as Mycroft Holmes has to recur to desperate measures. 

At the first ring his call is answered by the familiar bland voice, so indistinctive its pitch is consigned to oblivion the second the sinus waves hit one’s eardrum.

“Yes.”

They’re finally moving. Without paying attention to the traffic around him Mycroft swerves onto King Edward Street while stating his wishes to the most terrifying of his minions. Somewhere at the back of his mind he registers a great blaring but instantly dismisses the sound as unimportant, another ego rubbed the wrong way by the daily wear and tear of the traffic infarct clogging London’s main thoroughfares. 

“You have to find a vehicle. A black Bentley Flying Spur. It turned out of Little Britain into King Edward Street two minutes ago. Number plate G.S.M. one zero. In all likelihood you’ll find it abandoned. Should there be persons sitting in the car, you need to make sure the person in the backseat will survive. If the car is empty, search it. I expect a full report in six hours at the latest.”

Going with the flow Mycroft circumnavigates the roundabout circling the Museum of London.

“Yes,” the voice confirms Mycroft’s instructions and ends the call. Mycroft commences to stash the phone into his inner jacket pocket. This proves quite a feat as his hands have decided on initiating a little St Vitus dance. The fingers of his left hand skitter over the steering wheel as he guides the car onto St Martin’s Le Grand.

_Sherlock. Christ, Sherlock! What happened just now? Where are you?_

His mind provides the picture of Sherlock stunned by the blow of a pistol butt the moment he’s seated himself. Or rendered unconscious by a chloroform-soaked rag clamped over his nose and mouth. Or …

Stop it, he commands himself. This is _bloody_ useless. Sherlock probably is in severe danger but he’s sent the most capable man in the country hunting for the vehicle that abducted him and that’s all Mycroft can do for now. What he should concentrate on is finding out how it is possible that Sherlock’s carefully concocted plan spiralled so disastrously out of their control. 

***

Sherlock had been convinced that Moriarty was the uncrowned emperor of a shady empire who ruled his netherworld by hiring out the ingenuity of his nefarious mind and sharing a rigorously hedged off portion of the extensive contact list he kept in his mobile. He wouldn’t daunt at dangling that list over people’s heads as well, a noose to hang them with should they not comply with his wishes.

With a deft flick of his thumb Moriarty had sabotaged the mobile, letting it drop on the floor to burn a hole in the three hundred pound per metre carpet bedecking the lounge of The Somerville to the justified chagrin of the proprietors of the exclusive B&B. 

“Oops, silly little me,” the consulting criminal had giggled and smirked up at the men Mycroft had sent down to take him prisoner. Evidently the information wasn’t lost with the destruction of that HTC Incredible S. However, Moriarty had stuck stubbornly to the fiction that it had been, taunting Mycroft further by bewailing the loss of Sherlock’s telephone number and complaining that after his release he would have to travel to that _boring_ website again in order to recover it – “Two hundred and forty different types of tobacco ash, what the fuck! Who cares?”

During the time Moriarty’s visit to a reclusive part of the United Kingdom had lasted Mycroft spent considerable time investigating whether Moriarty’s apprehension led to a notable change in the flow charts of organised crime. He sat behind his desk for hours studying the spread sheets with their info graphics for any change to the established pattern. The randomness of cases had increased, quite spectacularly so, but there hadn’t been a noticeable decline of crime nor had the activity indicated syndicates were busy murdering each other over the sudden disappearance of Jim Moriarty. 

Criminals would be criminals it appeared, except with Moriarty gone it would be easier to put them behind bars. 

Mycroft shuddered as he considered the heated debate in Parliament that the cost of extra high-security prison cells was going to instigate.

***

During the time Mycroft spent with Miss Adler before her departure for New Zealand she hadn’t been able to provide Mycroft with any useful information as to the precise extent of Moriarty’s empire. 

“Aren’t we all silly?” she had sighed. “Believing we own the world because of the information we’ve stashed away in our phones. I hope you didn’t destroy my phone, Mr Holmes. I was quite attached to it. I’ve always liked things of beauty. Isn’t that one of those famous poems?”

“A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:  
Its lovliness increases;  
it will never  
Pass into nothingness;” he quoted to her with gritted teeth. “From John Keats’ _Endymion_. Now, Moriarty, if you please.”

“I was going to go there, Mr Holmes,” she’d said with a laugh and a toss of her proud head. “But I’ve always found it is more fun to whip up a little expectation, to beat around the bush a little first, rather than dive straight in. The idea of gratification is so much pleasanter than the experience itself.”

She held up her hand as she noticed the flash of impatience in his eyes. “All right, all right. Moriarty is his phone, nothing more, nothing less. Except, unlike feeble little me, he can afford to keep a copy. I don’t know where, though. I rather preferred talking about all the other peculiarities we had in common. Like me, he is of the opinion ermine is the best lining for handcuffs. It adds such a deliciously wicked, imperious feel to the proceedings, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I request you kindly to stick to the matter in hand.”

She’d looked down at her delicate hand, which, despite having gone without the attentions of a manicurist for some months, had still looked remarkably elegant.

“That would be so lovely,” she had purred. “Except my hand is empty. Unless you want to put something in it, of course.” Her gaze had been slanted deliberately at the desk, in the direction of his crotch.

“Miss Adler, please.”

“Oh, come on. A good hand job is right up your street. I’m _very good_ , you know. We don’t need the cuffs if you don’t want to. Though I think they would fit you rather well.”

“Thank you for your kind offer. I will, however, not consider it.”

She’d laughed. “I see. You’re already provided for and quite happy with the arrangement. Who is it I wonder? That sweet little eager thing with her Blackberry, _her_ thumb must be well-developed. Ah, but no, you’re not interested in women. It must be a man. Now who is the lucky boy who gets to play with the crown jewels?”

For an answer he’d given her his most deliberate neutral expression. After a moment she’d started an extensive study of her nails.

“I do wish you’d sent Kate over for _my_ hand job,” she’d pouted. “My nails are a fright. Look!”

“Moriarty, if you please.”

“I’ve already told you all there is to know about him. He works alone. If he needs people to do his killing for him he hires them, pays them handsomely and doesn’t make use of their services again. He was frank with me both times we met, at the Dorchester and that time at Albert memorial. I already told you he showed up alone, no body guards watching over him. Not because he’s lax, but because he has that much power. No one would want to kill him, they all need him. What an enviable position, wouldn’t you agree, Mr Holmes?”

“How did you know there were no bodyguards, nor a gun?”

“Believe me, Mr Holmes, part of my profession…” a quick flick of her eyes at his face “… my former profession that is – is to know these things. After all, it could prove rather fatal if I thought a man was happy to see me while in fact he was wearing a pistol in his pocket.”

***

Just _think_. 

Christ, he has to think, to turn himself into the efficient computer he is while attending Cabinet meetings, receiving ambassadors of hostile states, or ‘enjoying’ a dinner with representatives of the haute finance, meticulously stashing the information in its assigned little mental boxes while adding it all together to discover the underlying pattern.

What he must definitely not do now is _panic_ , even though the adrenaline tearing through his body itches under his skin, threatening to burst all his capillaries at once.

_Sher… No, you useless fool. Think!_

Sherlock would convince Moriarty to do away with himself, pretending to agree to the mad suicide pact of two geniuses bored with the world and everything in it. Once Moriarty was dead he would jump into the truck, throw the prepared body over the side onto the pavement, and make a run for it. 

For obvious motives, well, because Mycroft is a paranoid, nobody need be aware of the _real_ reason, Mycroft’s house is checked for bugs at random intervals twice a week.

Mycroft receives a discreet warning a quarter of an hour before the team arrives, providing him with the time he needs to ready himself to welcome them, or – and thankfully this has only occurred once so far – to ensure Sherlock and he are caught glowering at each other over his desk in his study, instead of engaged otherwise in the bedroom.

Thus Mycroft Holmes’ bedroom is the safest place in the country to plot the downfall of a master criminal and this is where Sherlock and he have been talking over their preparations endlessly. Bickering constantly, they’d raised the scaffold for the grand finale that was to be Moriarty’s undoing. After his initial reluctance Mycroft conceded freely that Sherlock’s reading of their adversary hit the nail on the head. Sherlock’s explanation appeared so flawless, as effortlessly elegant as the definite theory explaining the laws that govern the Universe. As the great game of the final problem started to unroll Mycroft even allowed himself to become moderately excited, every action of Moriarty fitted the pattern Sherlock had predicted so well. 

From the start Mycroft had objected to providing themselves of the services of Sherlock’s homeless network for both the task of creating a minor cycling accident to properly disorientate John Watson and driving the truck with the mattress that would break Sherlock’s fall. He’d proposed they turned to his most trusted of servants instead but Sherlock had been adamant. 

“McReilley and Trevors will be happy to accept the money and no questions asked. They’re not even aware of each other’s existence. Unlike your minions, who might start to blab one day while hanging around in their offices bored out of their little minds for lack of any interesting celebrity divorces or football results.”

Mycroft argued that would be highly unlikely, but sadly Sherlock had no personal acquaintance with the man with the quiet voice, and he’d been so adamant in his refusal to make use of Mycroft’s personnel that Mycroft had given in at last. 

Another mistake he now regrets sincerely because he can’t risk interrogating the men Sherlock has employed. Any question will make them ponder, and in no time at least one of them will be trying to contact a member of the press for the dishy glob of information he has to sell.

Steering the car onto West Smithfield again Mycroft shudders at the thought. He parks the car and makes for the entrance of the hospital. Presumably Bart’s rooftop will provide him with some answers.

***

Part of the plan was the excuse Mycroft would happen to be at Bart’s anyway, seeking a second opinion on a little medical problem of a personal nature. Hence the empty time slot in his agenda, the request to Anthea to ensure Mycroft of a parking spot and Mycroft’s decision to go over to Bart’s on his own so as not to have his chauffeur start wagging his tongue too enthusiastically about Mycroft’s state of health and its potential implications for the powerbase he held in Whitehall.

Inside the hospital Mycroft makes straight for the morgue. He finds Miss Hooper bent over a body bag. Draped on the slab behind her are the suit, shoes and coat provided for the corpse they had ‘lent’.

“Oh, Mr Holmes,” Miss Hooper nearly jumps into the air when he enters. “I didn’t hear you. You’re as quiet as a mouse. I’ve already finished shaping up dear Mr Finney again. He looks none the worse for wear, thank God. His family won’t know what Sherlock put him through…”

After straightening a last imaginary fold of the body bag with a tender hand she turns and sends her timid gaze quivering up at him. “Sherlock is all right, isn’t he?”

“Yes, of course,” he lies in his smoothest tones. “I left him at St Paul’s tube station. All went just according to plan.”

“Oh, that’s…” Her eyes light up briefly. The next minute her hands are twisting her lab coat and a downcast look clouds her face. “So he will be gone now for a very long time.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so. Well, you’ll have your chance to say farewell to him tomorrow evening. And remember, he _will_ return, Miss Hooper.”

“Yes, of course, it’s just… It’s so dangerous…What, what he plans to do… All by himself… He might die…” Her voice wanders off and she slants her gaze, away from him.

“He will die one day, Miss Hooper, as we all must. But he won’t die anytime soon. Now, I’m afraid either the police or the press might appear at the doorstep of these premises any minute so I suggest we end this morose conversation and get on with the winding up of your part in my brother’s little plan.” 

He wrings his features into his most reassuring smile and gestures at the clothes. “Would you be so kind as to pack this evidence into a bag and hide it somewhere for the time being. I will go up to the roof to collect Mr Moriarty’s corpse. Have you already contacted Campbell & Sons to have the casket delivered?”

A flush spreads up from her throat. “Oh yes, yes,” she stutters. “I rang them fifteen minutes ago and they said they would be here in half an hour. They were very nice. Much better than…”

“Excellent, Miss Hooper,” he interrupts her. 

She blushes. “I’ll ask them to put it in the side room.” 

She walks over to a door on the left side of the room and opens it. “Here. It opens into the corridor as well.”

“Admirable thinking, Miss Hooper,” Mycroft praises her. “Now, about the provisions for transporting Mr Moriarty’s remains from the roof.”

“Over here.” With a shy smile she gestures in the direction of a stretcher covered with a blanket and a folded lab coat on top of it. “Uhhm, Mr Holmes, if you please… I’d prefer…” She falls silent, the blush deepening until her face is glowing as bright red as if she’d swallowed a torch.

Inwardly, Mycroft sighs. In this moment he experiences nothing but the deepest sympathy for Sherlock’s predicament in his daily dealings with Miss Hooper. If she’s as maddeningly shy and innocuous in front of someone she doesn’t adore he can’t even begin to imagine the amount of stuttering his brother has been treated to. Every meeting with Miss Hooper must have been a severe test in self-restraint.

One which he failed continuously, no doubt.

And all the time his pleasant exchange with the accommodating Miss Hooper lasts, a voice inside him is screaming to hurry up to that rooftop, he’s suppressing the urge to press the zero on his phone again and demand a report _Now!_ , and he’s instructing himself to ignore the pictures that keep leaping up in front of his eyes of a strangled Sherlock, a shot Sherlock, a butchered Sherlock, a…

“I’d rather not go up to the roof with you, if you don’t mind.” Miss Hooper’s voice has dwindled down to a whisper. “You see. I don’t know whether you know, whether Sherlock has told you about… This relationship… Oh, it’s all so embarrassing.” The lab coat looks like it will be ruined, the mistreated cloth straining against the forces of gravity Miss Hooper’s hands are letting loose upon the front panel.

Mycroft waits but she offers no further explanation. He clears his throat.

“No problem, Miss Hooper. If you’d just be so kind as to tell me how to get up to the roof. Mr Moriarty was a small man. I’m convinced I’ll be able to carry him down without your help. Besides, it would be a good idea for you to be here once our friends arrive. You look sufficiently upset to convince them it really wouldn’t be a very good idea to have a closer look at our dear deceased.”

Momentarily confused she blinks her eyes, but then a small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth.

“Oh, thank you for not being angry with me.” The lab coat gets abandoned for her ponytail.

“Miss Hooper, you’ve been of invaluable help to my brother. For me to be angry with you would show me to be nothing but a reprehensible scoundrel, something which I sincerely hope I’m not.”

“Thank you for your understanding, Mr Holmes. I do hope the coat will fit you.”

He puts it on and adjusts the name tag that proclaims him to be Dr S. Sherringford. 

“After you, please,” he invites her. Miss Hooper opens the door into the corridor, which stretches away in blessed desolation.

“Not much traffic in here,” jokes Miss Hooper. She points to her left. “This is the general utility room where we store the stock that doesn’t fit into the lab. I haven’t been able yet to bring over the stacks of print paper like Sherlock requested to account for the difference in weight. I’ll try to but…”

“It’s all right, Miss Hooper. Thank you for showing me.”

Together they’ve ended up in front of an elevator. He presses the button. The doors slide open straightaway and he manoeuvres the stretcher into the lift.

“This will bring you up straight to the attics. They’re mostly used for storage. I’m afraid there’s only a pair of stairs to take you up to the roof.”

“It’s fine,” he assures her. “You go back, Miss Hooper. And remember to be thoroughly upset.”

Her answer is cut off by the shutting of the doors. The lift starts travelling the six floors. 

_If only that bloody bastard weren’t dead. I could interrogate him, and this time I’d resort to torture if I…_

Ping.

The sound of the signal indicating the doors are about to open rouses Mycroft from his murderous thoughts, which are completely useless anyway as the dirty little worm whose eyeballs he’d like to tear out with his own bare hands is already dead. He looks up. The lift has stopped at the third floor.

“Are you going down?”

Mycroft folds his face into a pleasant smile to address the young woman standing in front of the lift. “No, actually. I’m on my way up.”

“Oh, I want to go down, you see.”

“I understand completely,” he tells her. “Unfortunately this lift is going up. You could come with me, of course.”

“No, I must go down. I’m in a hurry.”

“There’s always the stairs. Good day.” An expression of outrage springs up on the woman’s features. He ends the display by pressing the button to shut the doors again.

Thankfully the rest of his journey continues uninterrupted. Still, he’s severely panicking again by the time he arrives at the attic. 

Panting, he yanks the stretcher out of the elevator and parks it next to the staircase. He _runs_ up the steps, all his abhorrence of legwork forgotten. He throws open the door to the roof and dashes onto the bitumen, a sudden burst of sunlight blinding him for a moment.

Cursing, Mycroft opens his eyes again to scan his surroundings.

He blinks.

Then he looks again.

The rooftop is empty.

 

***


	3. The walls come crumbling down

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Biting back tears of frustration Mycroft lowers the phone again. He shouldn’t have let this absurd hope bloom inside his chest. Still, his hand fumbles for his other phone, the cheap plastic one, the faithful envoy of their love affair, darting its despatches of ardour back and forth between himself and its equally cheap and plastic counterpart owned by his brother. He virtually attacks the button that will speed dial Sherlock’s number for him.

Out of the high dome of a sky so proverbially azure it shouldn’t be real, the sun beats down on Mycroft, who stands perched on a rocky outcrop rising high above the sea. 

The rays of the sun warm the air trapped between the straw boater on his head and his scalp but he doesn’t feel hot thanks to the breeze that comes wafting up to him over the gently undulating waves of the glassy green ocean spread out beneath the rocks.

Hands in the pockets of his comfortable slacks he stands looking down at Sherlock who is swimming down below in the crystal clear water. Beneath Sherlock’s pale form Mycroft can easily discern the dark rocks of the sea bed and the groves of seaweed, gently swaying with the ebb and flow of the surf beating against the cliffs.

Mycroft should be happy and relaxed, enjoying the play of the sunrays on his shoulder, gazing down upon his beloved brother cavorting in the ocean; yet he can’t shake a vague feeling of dread, throbbing at the base of his spine. His eyes scan the horizon, searching for an explanation for his unease.

Sherlock pivots onto his back and lets himself bob up and down on the waves, content to float along the current with eyes closed.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft calls him, waving his right arm. 

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he looks up, recognises Mycroft and smiles widely, white teeth sparkling, his glasz eyes – which are the colour of the waters surrounding him – radiating love. 

Suddenly Mycroft remembers. He’s been here before, on these same rocks, admiring his brother, responding to his invitation. 

In less than three seconds he’s tearing down the steel staircase, disregarding the danger, holding onto the handrail to guide him along the steps while he flies down them. 

“Please,” he prays. “Oh, dear God, please, not again.” 

By stepping onto the staircase he must have entered an alternative universe for no matter how fast he’s bouncing down the steps, taking them two at a time, he’s still travelling at a snail’s pace. When he flicks his gaze down at his feet he discovers they aren’t a part of him any longer. Detached, they pound down in slow motion. One foot is lifted from the step it was resting on just a moment ago, up and up it travels first for what must come down must go up. The upward movement is brought to a stop, the foot flicks on the ankle; toes dipping down to initiate the downward motion and tentatively it starts its descent, searching for a foothold until at last it perches on the safety of yet another step.

With all his will power he commands the feet that aren’t his, and yet are the ones he will have to employ in order to take him down to the beach, to increase their pace but to no avail. He inches down incredibly slow and with each interminable step down the stairs his heart sinks lower until he already knows what to expect once he arrives finally, finally at the beach.

Still, no amount of mental preparation can be enough to ward off the panic that swoops down upon him at the sight of the sparkling white pebbles of the empty beach and the rolling surf that paints them with a frothy pink as each wave is being sucked back into the great sea of blood. 

***

“No!” Mycroft shouts. “No!” 

His voice rings out over the grey emptiness stretching away in front of him, over the edge of the roof to bounce off the great dome of St Paul’s rising in front of him, travelling onwards to hit Tower 42 and the Gherkin, the Docklands high rises, crossing the river to echo off the Shard. The same shard of horror that is slowly, relentlessly being driven into his brain. He presses the heels of his palms into his eyes to force himself to wake up and end the nightmare but when his hands fall back to his side the rooftop is still barren, as clean and vacant as a new motorway about to be declared open to use by a snip of the shears handed to Her Majesty by the proud representative of the regional authorities.

The self-congratulatory expression on Sherlock’s face as he came pelting around the corner told Mycroft their meticulously planned drama had unfolded exactly as Sherlock had predicted. Moriarty was dead and Sherlock alive to swoop down on the helpless subjects of Moriarty’s dissolved empire, crawling out of the mud with blind eyes, lost without their consultant’s carefully constructed advice.

In less than an hour and a half his brother’s fairy-tale has spiralled into a horror story compared to which the material of Mycroft’s worst nightmare pales to a sedate weekend whiled away in the country.

The last time life sprang such a nasty – totally unforeseen – surprise upon Mycroft was when he was nineteen and Mummy telephoned him at University to tell him their dog, a beautiful Irish Setter called Mr Wiggles, had been run over by a lorry and killed.

The profound grief that momentarily stunned him as he listened to Mummy’s soft voice – tight with closely controlled emotion – relating how Mr Wiggles had darted out of the copse of beeches onto the driveway, barking loudly and virtually _throwing_ himself beneath the wheels, made him decide instantly he never wanted to have to suffer such a cruel experience again. From that moment on Mycroft had been prepared for all the vagaries life would see fit to dole out to him. 

During his career he’s managed to take in his stride the sad decline of the overall quality and the moral standards of the people elected to rule and ensure the welfare of the blessedly unaware general public. Occasionally, he may sigh over the atrocious outrages against propriety he daily encounters – inviting the bolder representatives of the reprehensible species into his office for a gentle reprimand – but no amount of taxpayer-funded depravity has ever had him bat so much as an eyelid.

Naturally, he had been shaken deeply by their cherished father dying of colon cancer after a gruelling sickbed endured in sober dignity; closely followed by the sight of their equally beloved mother tending her roses one perfect Summer afternoon, to suddenly grapple for her chest and topple forwards into one of her prized _Constance Spry_ bushes. 

Still, all the grief and hurt Mycroft experienced then are nothing compared to the terror that’s now hurtling through his arteries, threatening to blow up his brain as it’s struggling to grasp the mind-boggling circumstance of the deserted rooftop.

The buzz of his phone against his chest startles him out of his near-catatonic state. He pulls forth the mobile and peers at the screen.

_Sir, contact me asap.  
Concerns SH._

_A_

The word is out then and he should contact his assistant to hear her relay her version of today’s major event, but first he has to find out what happened once their elaborately crafted script was released on the stage. His fingers fly over the buttons.

_Occupied.  
What now?_

Those three words would suffice to continue the fabrication of barely concealed exasperation with _everything_ concerning his brother. After having sent the text he stands waiting impatiently. Thankfully, as ever, Anthea’s reply is swift and to the point.

_Sir, cannot text.  
Please call asap._

_A_

While stashing the mobile into his jacket pocket again Mycroft notices the small structure from which he has just emerged onto the roof. 

Of course. Stupid, stupid, stupid. How could he of all people overlook such a simple explication? Behind that innocuous edifice, that’s where Moriarty’s body lies waiting for him. 

With balled fists Mycroft bolts around the tiny outbuilding, for once oblivious to outward appearances.

Yet more expertly laid grey bitumen smirks up at him. 

He’s still reeling from the unexpected visual assault when the next explanation for the lack of a corpse enters Mycroft’s brain. What if Sherlock wasn’t the only one to plunge from the precipice of St Bart’s roof today? Suppose the consultation between the detective and the criminal deteriorated into a tussle, the two men fighting each other in close hand-to-hand combat near the edge, resulting in Moriarty toppling over and falling to his doom. 

Desperately, Mycroft dashes along the roof’s boundary, squinting to peer into the abyss of the empty space of the car park behind the building. Reason tells him he’s being utterly ridiculous and it’s almost a relief to the tarmac devoid of a sprawling body. Chiding himself proves to be an excellent means to keep at bay the terror that’s pooling deep in his belly.

_Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock!_

Above his head a helicopter sweeps through the London air, the rotation of its blades nearly deafening him with their noise. The next second his hand delves into his inner jacket pocket in a renewed search of his phone and his thumb hits the zero again.

“Yes.”

“Have someone go over all the footage of the roof of St Bart’s, from last week until a quarter of an hour ago. I expect your report on my desk this evening.”

“Yes.”

Pressing the mobile against his ear so tight he’s afraid he will inadvertently squish the cartilage Mycroft waits for any forthcoming information concerning the car in which Sherlock was abducted. However, all the line conveys to him is the sound of an even quiet breathing, indicating the man on the other side is awaiting further instructions.

Closing his eyes Mycroft grabs onto the sound to steady himself, drinking in the calming influence of the most imperturbable of individuals he has working for him. The tranquil balm is dissolved by the helicopter swooping closely over Mycroft’s head once more, drowning his thoughts in horrendous noise. The next instant the machine is gone and his brain is free to leap from one thought to the next.

“Arrange for customs to document each adult male individual over five feet four inches leaving the country, starting now until the end of the month,” he tells the voice. “I want every passport copied, a full description of each person and their destination. One hour updates on my desk.” 

A sharp intake of breath alerts him to the enormity of his request.

Briefly, he contemplates easing the task by further narrowing down his selection of subjects but immediately decides against it. Not after what’s happened just now. He’s alone in this. Suddenly he’s never been so thoroughly alone.

The man on the other side of the line is the most handsomely rewarded of his minions, earning even more than Anthea. Mycroft considers each penny disembogued by the British taxpayer to contribute to the payslip of this particular civil servant money well spent, and he trusts the man completely. _Trusted_ him completely. For the fact remains the man is being _paid_ for his efforts. Any day someone may come along and offer him a higher fee for his services. In the end, everyone can be bought, only some are more expensive than others. Should this scenario come to pass Mycroft can’t have the man carrying off the juicy titbit his former employer sent him on a frantic search for his supposed-to-be-dead brother. 

“Also, an x-ray of each crate large enough to hold a full-grown body, shipped out of the country either by sea or air,” he adds instead. 

“Yes.” A pause. “You are certain about this?”

“Just do it,” Mycroft barks into the phone and ends the call. He walks over towards the tiny outcrop on the roof and braces himself against it with both arms, heart beating loudly inside his ribs, to consider his next course of action.

Once more his mobile starts an urgent buzzing against his chest. This time however he chooses to ignore it. Drawing a hand over his face he decides in the end the best move would be to carry on without further delay as if everything has indeed developed according to plan. If Sherlock hasn’t been smuggled out of the country yet, they – whoever they are – won’t be able to do so now without Mycroft’s knowledge. There’s nothing else Mycroft can do in this moment except to play the role dealt out to him.

The faithful firm of Campbell & Sons – discreet suppliers of funerary services to the Holmes family since the eighteenth century – will by now have put up the casket in the little side room, no questions asked. Miss Hooper will have readied the paperwork necessary to release the body and allow its transport out of the morgue and on to the Campbell & Sons premises. 

In all likelihood the good pathologist is now confronting an anguished deputation of the Yard – preferably consisting of one person only – and some of the less savoury members of the press. 

She could probably do with a staid representative of both the family and the British government at her side. Mycroft ought to go down this minute and help her through the ordeal his brother and he have sprung upon her. Also, this moment would be a good time to have Anthea spill her tale of death and horror.

After drawing a last gulp of fresh air deep into his lungs he turns his back onto the frighteningly vacant expanse that is Bart’s rooftop.

***

Back inside, out of the sun’s glare, the first thing he does is to fumble for his mobile again.   
The quiet attic provides him with the chance to receive the announcement of Sherlock’s suicide without the chance of being disturbed.

On the phone’s display Anthea’s last text greets him,

_Sir, please call._

_A_

His finger hits the speed dial button.

“Anthea. What silly antics has my little brother been up to this time,” he queries in his most exasperated tones when she answers. 

“Oh sir,” she breathes, genuinely upset. “Please. Your brother, he… he… he is dead, Sir. He… Oh Sir, he jumped from the roof… and… and…”

His capable, virtually indispensable personal assistant whom he sincerely appreciates and admires so much he’s taken to calling her ‘dear’ every now and then, is nearly in hysterics, a condition he would have thought inconceivable until a minute ago. As ever, as in everything having to do with Sherlock, reality proves different from preformed ideas. 

“Anthea,” Mycroft tells her, “calm down. Take a deep breath. What you’re saying doesn’t make sense. My little brother lives under a deplorable misconception of his importance to the world at large and New Scotland Yard in particular, so he would never do away with himself. Also, he’s well aware his death would be an actual relief to a great number of people. This fact alone would prevent Sherlock from taking his own life for he wouldn’t want to give anyone the satisfaction.”

On the other end of the line Anthea is audibly packing herself together.

“Sir, please listen,” she begins. “It is true, you must believe me. I was phoned by the pathologist, Dr Hooper, to inform you. As you didn’t answer my calls I assumed you were still at Bart’s.”

“Yes, I am. Are you sure this is true?” Suddenly he’s tired, so very, very tired. When they hatched their ill-conceived plan Sherlock and he had assumed Mycroft would lie his way smoothly through all the distress caused by Sherlock’s suicide, in the comforting knowledge Sherlock was actually safe and sound. The idea of anything not going according to plan had simply not even entered Mycroft’s head. Two geniuses plotting together, their carefully constructed scheme just couldn’t go awry.

If only he dared confide in her, his trusted assistant. If he could pour his heart out to someone, anyone. All the anguished uncertainty that’s clamouring inside him, _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock! Oh god, where are you? Oh my darling. Sherlock!_

“All right,” he says. “I’ll go and see Dr Hooper. Where are you now?” 

“At the House, Sir. What do you want me to do?”

“First of all I need you to apologise profusely on my behalf to Mr Danes for not being able to attend his cherished Committee due to family matters. Summon Wilkinson to partake instead but ensure he doesn’t open his mouth. Not once. I’ll be grateful for your report on my desk tomorrow morning.”

“It will be done, Sir.”

“Fine. Thank you, my dear. I’m afraid I will be rather tied up here dealing with the aftermath of my brother’s impulsive decision if what you’ve told me did actually happen. It would make his timing of the event deplorable but it appears even in death my sibling is determined to bother me to the greatest extent imaginable.” 

***

In the corridor outside the morgue the din of voices shouting in agitation greets him. He pilots the stretcher into the side room, noticing with relief the casket is indeed laid out on the table. Not everything is going disastrously wrong, thank god.

Inside the casket lies the bag with the clothes. Good thinking, that. Beneath that flustering and innocuous exterior hides a clever woman. Meeting Sherlock Holmes probably was the worst thing that could ever happen to Miss Hooper. 

Mycroft extricates himself from the lab coat and tosses it into the coffin before walking over to the sink to wash his hands and examine his person in the mirror. He plasters an expression of faint distaste onto his features and waits patiently to see whether it holds. Once he’s satisfied it will, he walks over to the door to the lab and opens it.

A confused silence settles over the room upon his entrance. Swivelling his head slowly from left to right and back again Mycroft surveys the scene. From the corner she has been backed into by an agitated Detective Inspector Lestrade, Miss Hooper sends him a quick look of gratitude out of slightly reddish eyes from which the tears might start rolling any minute. A female police sergeant is warding off three members of the press, easily identified by their pens and notebooks and general lack of propriety.

“Ladies,” Mycroft addresses the room, “gentlemen. It pains me to have to remind you you’re standing in a lab that’s part of a morgue. My departed brother is lying in his coffin but a door down from this room. If you’d be so kind as to at least show him in death the respect you didn’t think he warranted while still alive by moving your racket to a more appropriate place, I’d be most grateful to you all.”

He glares down on the lot of them. Lestrade is the first to recover.

“I do apologise, Mr Holmes. My sincere condolences for your loss. I… I got lost in my argument with Miss, Dr Hooper that is. She’s refusing to let me have a look at Sherlock and…”

“And in doing so she’s acting according to my wishes,” Mycroft interrupts the DI’s incoherent speech. “My dead sibling isn’t a very invigorating picture as both Dr Hooper and I can testify. He is, I assure you, truly and utterly dead. The cause of death was witnessed by several spectators; Dr Hooper informed me John Watson was among them…”

“What, did John see… fucking hell…”

Mycroft wrinkles his nose.

“That’s one way of putting it.”

“Why did he do it?” one of the press leeches asks. 

“You’re not supposed to be here, are you?” Mycroft tells him. The blush springing up on the man’s face tells Mycroft this specimen has at least got a modicum of decency left in his body. “No doubt this hospital hosts a public relations department. I suggest you take your business there and allow Dr Hooper to resume her good work.”

The press collective trundles off under his glare. Having rid himself of one contingent of nosy busybodies Mycroft turns his attention on the representatives of the Met next. “Detective Inspector,” he says in his mildest tones. “I understand you were quite close to my brother and I appreciate your coming over. However, believe me; in refusing to let you have a look at what remains of him, I’m doing you a kindness.”

Miss Hooper starts nodding vigorously to confirm his words. “I told you, Greg,” she pipes up, “it’s just… oh… poor Sherlock…” and she bursts into a bout of thoroughly convincing tears. 

A mere matter of nerves, Mycroft supposes, and he can’t blame her, quite apart from the fact they appear to be the most expedient means in speeding the police officers out of the lab. The woman sergeant starts tugging at DI Lestrade’s arm, mumbling they’d better leave and find some of the witnesses. The DI wrings his arm loose and pivots to speak to Mycroft.

“I am most truly sorry for everything,” he says, holding out his hand to Mycroft in a gesture of reconciliation. Mycroft graces the proffered limb with a weak grasp.

“Thank you.” The tone of dismissal should be evident to even less perspicacious types than the most discerning of New Scotland Yard’s detectives. 

“I’ll see you at the funeral,” Lestrade stutters.

“Quite. Goodbye.”

With those words the door falls shut behind the retreating backs of the DI and his assistant. 

Mycroft heaves a sigh of relief before turning towards Miss Hooper who stands dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

“Are you all right?” he asks. “I do apologise for the inconvenience Sherlock and I are causing you.” 

“No, please,” she smiles bravely. “I’d do anything for him. I love… helping him, I mean you both.” She averts her gaze, allowing Mycroft the opportunity of a discreet perusal of her person.

His brother was most acute in designating her as their accessory in their imprudent scheme. The poor woman is evidently violently in love with him and her infatuation ensures them of her silence. She’d rather bite off her own tongue than give away the great secret Sherlock has made her a part off, in the absurd hope one day she will be rewarded for her pains in a manner that Mycroft will simply never allow. 

Miss Hooper isn’t aware of that, obviously.

For one absurd instant of weakness he considers telling her how he watched Sherlock slide into the wrong car. How he sat watching impotently while it sped away. The thought of the look of utter devastation that would wreck her features upon hearing his confession, saves him from spilling his secret. Instead, he chooses to clear his throat.

“I see,” he says. “What time will Campbell return to fetch the coffin?”

Her eyes swivel towards the clock mounted on the wall. “You still have half an hour left,” she informs him.

“I’d better get started then.”

“Yes, he…”

“… is not fit to be seen,” Mycroft edges in smoothly. “I’ll do it myself. All the materials are there, I suppose. You don’t have to fear, I know what I’m doing. I laid out my parents myself, I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else touching them once they’d been reduced to such a vulnerable state.”

“Oh… that’s, oh,” she stammers. 

“Why don’t you enjoy your break now, Miss Hooper? You could do with a cup of tea, I suppose.”

“Yes. If you think so, yes.” She blushes. “Do you want me to…”

His stomach protests insistently at the thought of being filled with the tannin-filled vile liquid passing for tea in most British government institutions.

“No, thank you,” he dismisses her offer. “I’ll see to Mr Moriarty and then I’ll be on my way.”

“Of course, well, errr, I’ll be upstairs then. In the canteen, that is…”

“Enjoy your tea, Miss Hooper.”

Back in the side-room he’s confronted with the empty coffin again. They’d counted upon filling it with Moriarty’s body, adding the required extra mass through the suit and the ridiculous coat Sherlock always insisted on wearing, which weighs close to four pounds, and some stacks of printing paper. It looks like he’ll need all the printing paper he can lay his hands on now.

_Sherlock. Oh Christ, Sherlock. What happened? How… Oh god, he’s dead. He must be dead. I cannot… Sherlock…_

His knees will buckle, he’s certain of it, but thankfully his moment of weakness passes. Mycroft grinds the palms of his hands into his eyes to momentarily block all thoughts. He must work quickly and efficiently now.

_Really? What for? With Sherlock dead, what have you got left to live for?_

With a groan he lets his hands drop and starts donning the lab coat again. His hands are trembling so much he doesn’t even attempt to close the buttons. Instead, he steadies them on the handles of the stretcher and wheels it out into the corridor again, making straight for the general utility room.

Inside the room he finds a great many boxes of printing paper. Mycroft hefts seven boxes onto the stretcher. His armpits are beginning to feel unpleasantly damp. He should have divested himself of his jacket first.

Back in the side room he lines the coffin with the clothes and fills it with the packets of printing paper. Thirty-one packets ought to do. He stacks the remaining four for Miss Hooper to find, flattens the boxes and dashes off to the utility room again to throw them into the paper recycling bin. 

Then it’s back to the side room once more. Mycroft hasn’t exercised this much since he first left University and bade farewell to the sports fields. Still, his task isn’t finished yet. With a great effort and some grunting he manages to arrange the lid on the box. Out of his jacket pocket he whisks the multi-purpose tool Sherlock provided him with and uses it to drive in the screws Campbell & Sons have thought to arrange next to the coffin. He’s barely finished when there’s a discreet knock on the door to the corridor. 

“Yes,” he calls.

Old Campbell himself shuffles into the room, hat in his left hand, and his right one extended to greet Mycroft. Mycroft clasps the hand and shakes it heartily. Somehow the presence of this man who has helped bury his whole family is oddly comforting.

“Mr Holmes, what a sad day for your family, for you that is, seeing as you’re the last one left. My sincere condolences.”

Úpon hearing the undertaker’s words Mycroft’s eyes grow surprisingly hot and wet but he swallows down the tears. 

_He has to say this. He doesn’t know a thing. Sherlock is_ alive _you fool. He must be. He can’t be dead, you won’t allow it._

“Thank you, Mr Campbell. It is quite a shock, indeed. I hadn’t realised my baby brother was in such dire straits. We weren’t close of course, but still…” Mycroft babbles before falling silent. 

Mr Campbell bobs his head in sympathy, his monk’s fringe of neat white curls dancing around the glistening top of his bare head. 

“You laid him out yourself,” he says. “Not many people are willing to do that these days, not even for their close kin. Now how about the paperwork? That charming pathologist told me it would all be taken care off.”

“Ah yes,” Mycroft wheels round and spots the sheaf lying on a chair next to the sink. “Here you are. What about the transport…”

“You don’t have to worry, Mr Holmes,” Campbell interjects. “I’ve got two strong men waiting outside. If you wish to I’m willing to visit you either at home or the office to go over the details of the memorial service and the text in the announcements and the cards with you but I do realise you’re an extremely busy men and we’ll be happy to work for you through written instructions, same as with your parents.”

“That would be best, Mr Campbell. My assistant will contact you tomorrow morning to convey my wishes.”

“There’s plenty of time, Mr Holmes. I’ve already taken the liberty of contacting the cemetery where your parents are buried and they do actually have a plot available quite near to them.”

“No,” Mycroft exclaims in a tone more vehement than he intended. The idea of defiling their parents’ grave by bringing Moriarty’s body into the vicinity of their last resting place had appalled him so he had dug in his heels when Sherlock had forwarded exactly this idea. 

“My brother would have wanted to be buried in London,” Mycroft continues a little calmer. “I’ll have my assistant search for a plot.” It’s already been bought and paid for but there’s no need for Mr Campbell to be aware of that particular detail. 

“All right, Mr Holmes. Whatever you desire.” Campbell is unperturbed, agitated family being a regular part of his business. “I’ll summon my boys now, Mr Holmes. Unless you would want a few more minutes alone with your brother.”

“No, I don’t think so. We never had much to say to each other when he was alive and the situation hasn’t improved much by him being dead, I find.”

“Well.” Mr Campbell shrugs his shoulders. “Most conversations are nothing but monologues anyway.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft quirks an eyebrow in agreement. “Now if you would be so kind as to call for your personnel. I am, after all, as you yourself noted, a rather busy man.”

“Of course. Excuse me for a moment.” The undertaker opens the door and calls out into the corridor. “Peter, James, we’re ready.”

Two young men rolling a collapsible coffin bier enter the room. They both walk up to Mycroft first and mumble their condolences upon his loss. Then they turn to the task awaiting them, paling a little around their nose when they perceive the length of the casket.

“Don’t worry,” Mycroft tells them. “He was a very thin man. You won’t strain your back.”

“Thank you, sir,” one of them says.

Mycroft holds his breath when they lift the box, his gaze flitting between their faces for the merest hint of an indication they notice anything is wrong, any chance they might let go of the coffin and cry wolf. His sigh of relief when the coffin is lowered onto the bier, is almost audible. The hoax will work and in five days thirty-one stacks of printing paper will be interred with all the solemn respect befitting to the occasion.

“Mr Holmes, sir,” Mr Campbell says.

“Thank you for everything so far.” 

With a slight bow the undertaker backs out, leaving the room with its absent ghosts to Mycroft. 

***

The insistent quiver of his phone in his jacket pocket rouses him from whatever godless state of inertia his mind had wandered off to. He digs it up and peers at the screen, upon reading the identity of the caller he answers with a great rush of adrenaline swishing through his body.

“We found the car. Gutted and burned. Whoever was in it took off by helicopter; all possible marks and traces on the ground have been spoiled. We are, however, looking for any clues that might remain. You may expect a full forensic report tomorrow. I’ve send out an alert for the helicopter. It isn’t registered and it hasn’t contacted any of the authorities for permission to fly in London. We’re searching for it. The footage from Bart’s showed nothing out of the ordinary.”

“I was on Bart’s roof not an hour ago. A helicopter was circling quite closely over my head.”

“I’ll have someone look into it.”

With those words the man rings off. Mycroft ponders the information. At least Sherlock isn’t dead. Whoever has got him went to great pains to cart him off intact. Great joy at the thought his beloved brother is still alive – still breathing – blurs his vision momentarily. 

_Oh, thank god, thank god. Oh, Sherlock!_

Except, there’s no proof, not the slightest shred of evidence. They might have already killed Sherlock anyway – strangled him the instant he had seated himself in the car – and just carry along his body to depose of it elsewhere, out of Mycroft’s reach, to let him live in uncertainty… always.

_Why would anyone want to do that? To the outside world we’re living like cat and dog._ John _, they’re targeting John. But why would anyone want to do_ that _?_

In the palm of his hand the phone starts vibrating again. 

“The footage shows no one was on that roof at the time you mentioned.”

Mycroft is aghast upon hearing these words. He stands speechless, phone pressed tight against his ear.

“We’re already investigating what’s wrong and when the sabotage was started.”

By now Mycroft has sufficiently recovered himself. “Fine,” he croaks. “I’ll interview the culprits myself once you’ve got them. I want my circuits safe and sound again in three hours.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Just do it. I should sack you for your incompetence now for even letting this happen.”

A sharp intake of breath is all that greets him from the other side of the line. Then “Consider it done.”

“Let me know if you need extra budget.”

“Yes.” A short silence followed by a scrape of the man’s throat. “The first batch of data you asked me to collect is already on its way. I tell you again this is too much for one man to handle. I do most strongly advise you to outsource what you’re searching for. You’ll find plenty of companies in India and China willing to help; the people doing the search will have no idea why this information is important to you. We’re currently monitoring all the lines to and from your office. As soon as I’m convinced again they’re safe I’ll let you know.”

“Fine.” Mycroft waits but the man clearly can’t give him anything else at the moment. “Fine,” Mycroft repeats. “Listen, whoever did this, whoever allowed this to happen, I want his head on my plate.”

“So do I,” the man growls and rings off.

Mycroft has just stashed the phone back into his pocket when a thought hits him. He slaps his forehead in annoyance, cursing himself for his slowness. Of course it’s too late now, oh, if only he’d thought of doing this straightaway, when there still was a chance…

With shaking fingers he brings forward the mobile again and starts scrolling through his address book. His forefinger hits the button once Sherlock’s name shows on the display. He brings the phone up to his ear.

“This telephone number doesn’t exist. Please call…” a brisk woman’s voice starts instructing him.

Biting back tears of frustration Mycroft lowers the phone again. He shouldn’t have let this absurd hope bloom inside his chest. Still, his hand fumbles for his other phone, the cheap plastic one, the faithful envoy of their love affair, darting its despatches of ardour back and forth between himself and its equally cheap and plastic counterpart owned by his brother. He virtually attacks the button that will speed dial Sherlock’s number for him.

“This telephone number doesn’t exist. Please…”


	4. Here it comes, the dark night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, during yet another tedious meeting he has to preside, the image of Sherlock’s lips slackening in orgasm flares up in front of his eye – the helpless way they fall open – and an involuntary smile paints the inside of his mouth as he kisses his brother reverently, right there in front of all the self-satisfied nobody’s and sitting through a thoroughly dispiriting beefing about nothing by Sir This and That.

Miss Hooper hasn’t returned when Mycroft pulls the door to the lab shut behind him. He pushes the button of the lift to transport him up to the ground level. The elevator doors open and the compact figure of John Watson storms out of the small cabin, almost crashing into Mycroft. The good doctor grinds to a halt and glares up.

“You,” he gasps, “what are you doing here? How dare you come here...”

“John,” Mycroft holds out his hand, “my sincere condolences...”

With a battle cry of rage and grief John slaps Mycroft’s hand aside, capping his act of aggression with a violent shove in Mycroft’s chest. His aim isn’t very accurate and Mycroft doesn’t even stagger but the obvious deliberate intent to _hurt_ causes Mycroft to smart more than any actual infliction of pain would have done.

From the beginning – right from the minute when the whole mad disastrous plan had still been nothing but a wild idea forwarded and rejected straightaway in the private exclusivity of Mycroft’s bedchamber – Mycroft had felt bad for John, very bad. The man didn’t deserve to be deceived by his best friend in such a spectacular manner. However, by reflecting his brother and he were doing a great service to the British general public Mycroft managed gradually to quell his misgivings while Sherlock darted around London high as a kite, texting Mycroft almost constantly to inform him of his progress.

The first interview with John had been comparatively easy. John’s reaction to the information of his new neighbours Mycroft had fed him had been one of light-hearted banter, but Mycroft had caught sight of the quick flare of worry in John’s eyes. Of course he’d noticed, after all it was his _job_ to notice such things. Once John had made his departure from the austere premises of the _Diogenes_ Mycroft had texted Sherlock immediately, 

_Tread carefully. Your friend deserves no less._

The response had been a huffed,

_I know what I’m doing._

The second interview had been a different matter entirely. Displeased with Sherlock still, he had entered the fray with casual indifference. Soon, both John’s open righteous anger on behalf of his friend and evident aggression towards the perpetrator had made it extremely hard for him to maintain this outward veneer of blasé detachment. After John had rushed out of the room Mycroft had remained seated in his chair for what turned out to be almost thirty-five seconds, struggling to compose himself again. His hand had reached for the plastic phone of its own accord but he’d forced it to fall down at his side, contending another request for consideration would earn him nothing but a vexed snarl. 

Thus Mycroft had ended up here in a hospital corridor confronting the grieving husk of the proud soldier-doctor he’s come to appreciate so much during the time of the man’s acquaintance with his sibling. He must act breezily and unconcerned, vaguely annoyed with his younger brother for doing away with himself at such an inopportune moment, just when he was on his way to attend a meeting the Foreign Affairs Select Committee on a matter of national importance…

“John, please,” Mycroft attempts to placate the smaller man. “This behaviour is unworthy of you. I understand…”

His calming words are answered by another thrust of angry hands against his ribs. “You traitor,” John is shouting. “Your own brother, how could you? Murderer!”

_John Hamish Watson, if only you knew… right now… your words…_

But no, Mycroft Holmes is no weakling. He’s not going to give in to his fears in front of others. He backs away – creating a distance between them through _his_ choice – and clears his throat.

“It’s no use talking to you in your present condition,” he says coldly. “I’ll have Anthea order a taxi for you. Go home to console Mrs Hudson; no doubt she will need every ounce of sympathy you can spare. All arrangements for the funeral have been taken care off already. If you do wish to speak a few words of farewell during the service you can contact Anthea and inform her of the time you’ll want and we will fit you in somehow.”

After his little speech Mycroft pivots on his heels and presses his forefinger on the button next to the elevator doors again. Behind his back he can hear John gasping for breath.

***

Outside he discerns two men loitering near the telephone box in front of the hospital. A passing inspection of their appearance convinces him these are McReilley and Trevors, a fact confirmed by one of them accosting him at his approach.

“You the brother?”

“I am indeed.”

“A hundred quid each.”

They both stretch out their right hand, palm upwards.

“Certainly.” Drawing his wallet Mycroft starts counting the money, disbursing a stack of fivers to each of them.

“Everything went according to plan?” he asks offhandedly, his gaze scanning the surroundings while all his attention is focused on the faces of the men in front of him.

“ ‘Course it did. He’s a smart one, that one. Works with the coppers and all… Well, you would know, I reckon.” The man grins, a horrible gap-toothed leer, the few remaining teeth as black as the night.

“He’s famous, your brother is. Didn’t you see those mug shots with the hat?” the other one forwards. His teeth are in a better condition but only slightly. Cocaine addicts, both of them, Mycroft decides. God only knows where Sherlock dug up the pair of them.

“Indeed.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows in confirmation. They’re completely useless in their open admiration of Sherlock’s cleverness, unable to provide him with any details he could work upon. He hands each of them an extra twenty pounds.

“You were a great help. Thank you, gentlemen,” he tells them.

Together they make off down Hosier Lane. For a moment Mycroft looks after the pair of them. Over his head a helicopter travels in a straight line in the direction of Baker Street.

***

Back at Whitehall Anthea expresses her condolences and goes on to silently prepare him a cup of smoky Lapsang Souchong. Normally, he deplores the tea’s rather crude smokiness but now he welcomes the fleeting stupor of at least one of his senses inflicted by the strong tea.

Just what the doctor ordered, he thinks, wincing inwardly at his own bad taste.

_Sherlock. Oh god, Sherlock! Where are you? Please be alive, oh, please, please don’t be dead._

He squashes his outburst of panic with a hard hand.

“I’ll take all calls from Campbell,” he tells his faithful assistant instead. Her predecessor, Rhea, will have told her what business Campbell & Sons conduct so he doesn’t elaborate upon his request. 

Anthea tips her head to indicate she understands and starts heading for the door. The range of files awaiting his perusal on his desk is immaculate as ever.

“Anthea,” he calls her.

She pauses and looks at him. “Yes, sir.”

Vaguely, he waves his hand over the desk, around the general order of his bright and pleasant room.

“Thank you.”

“Sir.” Another quick bob of her chin followed by a slight hesitation and then she forwards, “I do feel for you, Sir. After all, he was the only kin you had left.”

“Yes. I confess the idea of being the last one of my family is unsettling. At present that is. It will pass eventually. After all, many people before me have lived through the same experience.”

“Of course, Sir,” she fixes him with a gentle glance. “Actually, you’d better go home now. There’s nothing too pressing going on now. That situation I phoned you about can wait until tomorrow. The Committee decided we won’t take any action yet. The minutes are on your desk. Wilkinson didn’t say a word.”

“Good. That’s good. I’ll just have a quick look at your report and then I’ll be off.”

“All right, Sir,” noiselessly, she closes the door behind her.

He settles himself in his chair, stands up again the next instant. His state of incertitude is infuriating. Just when he contemplates dialling Zero again his phone rings. He’s quick to answer.

“Your lines are secure again. We’ll need another twelve hours to make a full inventory of the damage. In your inbox you’ll find the data you requested and ten new internet identities, names to be changed according to your liking. They will destruct themselves if they haven’t been used within the next month.”

“Good. Any idea of the culprit yet?”

The other side of the line goes silent. Then, just when Mycroft has decided he won’t receive an answer the whispery voice resumes. “It’s not one person, that would be impossible, considering the sophisticated solutions we’ve uncovered. This is the work of a tightly controlled organisation – extremely frightening in my opinion.”

Mycroft considers his reply. In the end he rings off with a curt, “Fine. Reduce those twelve hours to eight, at the most,” ignoring the sharp intake of breath of his employee.

***

After he’s sent off his chauffeur he lingers just inside the garden gate, staring off into the darkness. Inside the cage of his ribs his heart is still hammering loudly, like it hasn’t stopped doing since he first realised Sherlock had entered the wrong car and it had swallowed him whole and was speeding away, carrying its precious booty with it. Mycroft’s treasure, his exquisite little brother, his sumptuous lover, Mycroft’s very own darling.

Ever since that night more than fifteen years ago Mycroft has been addicted to his brother. He craves the quick flash of uncharacteristic tenderness in Sherlock’s eyes as they take leave of each other in public and the brush of Sherlock’s long, graceful fingers past his as they shake hands in a formal setting. Each day he longs to bury his nose into Sherlock’s curls, to inhale the fresh clean smell and feel their playful dance over his face. Sometimes, during yet another tedious meeting he has to preside, the image of Sherlock’s lips slackening in orgasm flares up in front of his eye – the helpless way they fall open – and an involuntary smile paints the inside of his mouth as he kisses his brother reverently, right there in front of all the self-satisfied nobody’s and sitting through a thoroughly dispiriting beefing about nothing by Sir This and That.

Always, he’s been afraid for Sherlock’s life, afraid of losing him. Ever since the government report _"CCTV: Looking Out For You"_ , was issued by the Home Office he’s been a staunch advocate of the device, as he’d gathered straightaway the cameras provided him with the perfect means of watching over his treasured brother almost constantly.

As expected, Sherlock scoffed at the idea and deployed every possible means at sabotaging Mycroft’s coveted circuits. He memorised the position of every camera installed in London, working out their range and taking careful precaution at avoiding being filmed.

Mycroft’s rejoinder to Sherlock’s evasion compensated in efficacy what it lacked in finesse as it consisted in having more camera’s installed. Baker Street and the surrounding Marylebone area are under closer surveillance than the whole of Tower Hamlets. In the end Sherlock was forced to throw in the towel, his final act of defiance a florid striptease in front of his window on one of John’s pub evenings. He’d stood glaring into the camera, biting his lower lip in a fake imitation of sexual innuendo as perfectly as any prostitute pounding the pavement around King’s Cross, drawing his hand past his face and down the long pale column of his throat, easing open the buttons of his shirt with a practiced languid flick of his wrist. Mycroft had enjoyed the show and kept the reel for Sherlock’s inspection. 

“I’m rather good, ain’t I dearie?” Sherlock queried in a Cockney voice straining to sound posh after they finished watching it together.

“Mmmm, it will do,” remarked Mycroft, earning himself an offended slap on his thigh.

All the expense and ingenuity invested in keeping his cherished little brother safe and still he has been abducted, right from under Mycroft’s nose.

***

Inside the house everything is silent.

“Sherlock,” he can’t help calling, softly, against all better knowledge, hope surging in his chest for one short-lived instant. His brother sweeps through the door to the drawing room, exultant, glorying in his triumph. Laughing, he throws himself into Mycroft’s arms, kisses him on the mouth…

Around Mycroft the darkness reigns absolute. The big horse chestnuts in the garden effectively blocking what light from the street lanterns dares invade the grounds surrounding the house.

Swallowing his useless disappointment Mycroft feels for the light switch. He starts a tour of the premises, flicking on the lights in a fight against the all-pervading blackness. After a brief hesitation he gives his bedroom a wide berth – he won’t enter it, not until Sherlock is safe at his side again. Luckily, both his walk-in closet and his bathroom have a door opening into the corridor as well. Upon closer consideration he decides the bathroom is also off-limits. The tiles have been witness to too many scenes of intimacy, Sherlock stepping out of the shower and shaking droplets of water out of his hair with the elegant shrug of a sleek black cat. The exchange of a lazy kiss while they both stood shaving in front of the antique mirror over the sink. Until Sherlock’s return, Mycroft will make do with one of the guest bathrooms.

In the kitchen Mycroft finds the expected leg of lamb cooked to perfection, the salad and its dressing, the strawberries. With a mighty stroke of his arm he sends the whole meal hurtling into the bin. He hates the strawberries for being there, for being so fresh, and ripe and ready for the taking, for existing. He was going to feed them to Sherlock, coating them with a luxurious layer of cream first… The cream ends up in the bin as well.

The work doesn’t give him any satisfaction. Shrugging out of his jacket he walks to his study, carelessly arranging it over the back of his chair, before falling down onto the seat. 

Once he’s started up his computer he busies himself with fleshing out one of his internet identities first. In an hour _Orpheus_ has received four offers for the combing of an extensive array of files to be provided by said Orpheus in search of any male individual between six feet and six feet two inches who has left the United Kingdom after a certain time and date, no further questions asked. 

Sometime later Orpheus has paid one-tenth of the agreed-upon fee and sent off the first batch of files. He’s installed a program – developed by one of his minions and tested extensively by one of the computer whiz kids working for the man with the quiet voice – that forwards the batches directed to him automatically, changing the sender’s identity while doing so. As stated in the arrangement he will receive hourly updates of the findings. Even though Mycroft has narrowed the search considerably he’s very much aware going over the results will be an almost impossible chore. Reasoning Sherlock’s kidnappers can’t very well shorten him, he’s given his brother’s actual height as the minimum height to look out for. However, his hijackers may make him wear shoes with an inlay, thus making Mycroft’s task much heavier.

After a quick internal debate Mycroft bends down to remove the right lowest drawer out of the desk. He installs himself on his knees in front of the empty space and pulls up the floorboards to reveal the safe installed beneath the floor. Searching through its contents he finds the one photograph of Sherlock he possesses. Without looking at it he feeds it into the scanner and returns it to its hiding place once the machine is done.

He modifies his facial recognition software, widening the accuracy rate of the results to seventy five percent. After all, the eye of the camera and the whole of human ingenuity can never be as accurate as the naked human eye.

Finally, he ensures the search results are fed straight to the recognition system. That’s all he can do for now. 

His heart sinks when the first results start arriving. The fingers of his right hand clutch the mouse, clicking in perpetual motion. Picture after picture after picture after picture after picture in one ceaseless line-up of humanity. Of course Sherlock is not among them, of course…

***

The lusty warble of a blackbird in the _Constance Spry_ rose climbing the wall outside the study rouses him. Blearily, he straightens himself in his chair and sits blinking in the bleak early morning light streaming through the window. For one blissful moment he wonders why he’s here, in his study, and not upstairs among the freshly starched sheets of his bed until he remembers, and groans, and covers his face with his hands.

 _Oh god, Sherlock._

Less than twenty-four hours ago Mycroft Holmes was the luckiest man on earth and he never even realised it, accepting his fortune as nothing but his due. How vain and foolishly arrogant he’s been. His computer has switched itself off, his head by a freakish coincidence falling down on his left arm as sleep stole upon him. His fingers encounter the lines of the creases of his shirtsleeve in the flesh of his cheeks. _Christ_ , he must be a sight.

With unsteady arms he pushes himself up, away from the desk. A glance at his watch tells him it’s five thirty. In two hours his maid cum cook will arrive to prepare his breakfast and commence on her daily round through the house, tidying and cleaning its many rooms.

He doesn’t want to see her, he doesn’t want to have to watch the frown of her brow as she hits upon the discarded meal in the kitchen, he doesn’t want to hear her express her condolences. All the same, he _does_ have an extensive agenda to work through today so he will have to hurry if he means to avoid her.

Making use of the bathroom attached to the main guestroom, Mycroft dedicates himself to his morning ablutions. Shaved and showered he crosses the hallway towards his closet. Carefully averting his eyes from the corner where Sherlock’s dressing robe – the purple silk one Mycroft presented Sherlock with all those years ago. The expression of his desire, as Sherlock had deduced before Mycroft even knew himself – and a spare shirt and suit are hanging, he spends some time deliberating upon his choice of clothing for the day, deciding upon a dark-grey and off-white pinstripe in cashmere, a white shirt with discreet flat-disk silver cufflinks, and a matt-silver tie with its matching pocket square.  
A quick check in the mirror shows him the outfit will suit its purpose. He exudes a quietly-aggressive confidence, the tired lines around his eyes accentuating he can be a dangerous man, if he chooses to be so.

Suddenly he’s desperately, ravenously, hungry; his stomach reminding him the last time he ate was eighteen hours ago. He descends to the kitchen and raids the fridge and the bread bin, cutting himself thick slices of sourdough bread and slapping hunks of matured Cheddar and pickles on top. Standing at the table he wolfs down the unsophisticated meal and rounds it off with two cups of strong hot espresso he manages to wrestle from the infernal machine resting on top of the counter.

Upstairs in his study Mycroft restarts the computer. His inbox is filled to overflowing. With a deft clicking of his fingers he works through the new batches selected for Orpheus’ personal scrutiny. No Sherlock. Even though he hadn’t dared hope for anything else his sense of disappointment is absolute. 

Never before has he had to accustom himself to being helpless, unable to do anything to influence his situation. To be floundering about in the dark, without information, without a clue to what’s going on, is a new sensation and he isn’t quite sure whether he is up to it. How do the others, ordinary people, manage to live with this on a daily basis? The all-out crippling fear for Sherlock’s life dulls his mind, the knowledge he is out there on his own almost petrifies him. Everything Mycroft has undertaken so far – the battles for power he’s waged – has been nothing but a walk in the woods on a perfectly fine summer day compared to the blitzkrieg he’s enduring now. 

And he’s as paralysed and afraid as his country was during that disgraceful period of the phony war, after Hitler invaded Poland. The Empire forced down to its knees, fearful of the sound of its own breathing.

The sound of his phone rouses him from his unworthy reverie. He checks the number and struggles to keep the eagerness out of his voice when he answers.

“Everything is under control again. We’ve found the perpetrator. One of our men came down with pneumonia and was replaced temporarily with someone from MI6…” Mycroft’s caller ignores his sharp intake of breath and continuous in his placid tone, “… his antecedents and record were checked before he was allowed access to our systems.”

“Have you brought him in?” Mycroft grinds out.

A slight pause, Mycroft can almost hear they uneasy shuffle on the other side of the line. 

“That’s going to be difficult as he’s currently resting in the Nunhead Cemetery. A faulty heart valve was listed as the cause of death. Apparently, his family had a history of cardiac problems. Quite neat. I’ve already prepared the paperwork for the exhumation. You’ll find it on your desk together with a general report.”

“Fine. What about our patient?”

“He’s fully recovered and back to work. I’ve got a team ready to intercept him the moment he enters his office.”

“All right.” Mycroft pinches the root of his brow. “Tell me. When did this happen?”

“Three weeks ago. My people checked for any information or files that went missing or was tempered with. So far they’ve found nothing apart from the incident yesterday afternoon.”

“I see.” The frightening fact is – in that moment he _does_ indeed see. While Sherlock and he were planning Moriarty’s downfall, Moriarty was scheming Sherlock’s, and it looks like he was three steps ahead of them.

He checks his schedule for the day. 

“I’ll see the man at eleven thirty sharp,” he says.

“Yes.” 

They both wait. Mycroft engages himself in a brief mental scuffle and loses. “The car,” he blurts out.

“Nothing definite yet. We found some traces of blood on the backseat and the ashes of a few hairs, suggesting a fight took place but that’s all.”

Mycroft clinches the fist of his free hand so tight he can feel the nails tearing at his flesh.

“Good,” he manages and disconnects the call.

He wastes two minutes and thirty-four seconds staring out of the window, his mind a blank. 

Then he checks another load of files, using the work as an excuse to postpone the loathsome task awaiting him.

Mycroft reaches the last discouraging file all too soon. With a sigh he shoves away the keyboard and reaches for a sheet of paper and starts to ransack a drawer for a not-too-expensive Parker pen like the ones Sherlock would use. No probable candidates present themselves and in the end he settles for the use of his own Conway Stewart _Churchill_ pen, allaying his misgivings with the idea the receiver won’t be likely to deduce anything from the type of ink used in writing the letter. What he should concentrate upon is the handwriting. How often he’s deplored Sherlock for the almost childish block letters he insisted on using, claiming his handwriting was at least legible.

 _Molly_ he begins. Certainly, Sherlock wouldn’t start his letter with the word ‘dear’, not even after everything she’s done for him.

_I realise you must be disappointed to find yourself alone with my brother. At least the food will be good, if you’re interested in those trivialities. I must be off now as –_

Mycroft considers he’s succeeding splendidly. In just three sentences he’s already scoffed at his own person and introduced the term ‘I’ twice. Miss Hooper will be thoroughly convinced of the letter’s authenticity.

It’s a minor victory but he should embrace it nevertheless in order not to lose heart. He won’t let that happen. 

Mycroft Holmes will stand steadfast.

For Sherlock.

***

He’s evaded the papers by ignoring his letterbox on his way out of the grounds. However, he finds them glaring up at him from his desk in his office, spread out as usual by the faithful Anthea. She hovers beside him while he places his bag next to them with a thud that’s deliberately soft. 

“I can clear them away. Cut out the articles,” she offers.

“No.” Oh god. There’s Sherlock’s portrait, the one with the ludicrous deerstalker his brother hated so much. 

“No, thank you,” he continues in a more composed tone. He forces himself to swivel his head and smile at her. “They’re a nasty lot, but then, we were already aware of that, weren’t we?”

Eagerly, she nods her sanction of his statement. “Sir Whitcombe will be here to see you in a quarter of an hour, Sir,” she reminds him.

“Yes. Thank you, Anthea.” 

Left alone, he flicks through the papers, turning the pages with quick, angry tugs of his right hand. The entire pack has been having a ball in the gutter it seems. Screaming headlines alternate with a lurid array of photographs of Sherlock giving testimony in court, Sherlock standing next to the recovered Turner, Sherlock and John next to the recovered banker’s son. Even more appalling are the shots of John getting out of his taxi in front of 221B with red-rimmed eyes, the close-up of a devastated Mrs Hudson opening the door for him. Detective Inspector Lestrade has whole pages devoted to him as well, a fine career swiftly swirling down the drain, and Mycroft struggles with the mounting anger, the desire to tear up the pages filled with vile, hateful slander.

On one of the last pages of _The Sun_ his own person is referred to, a tiny photo added to top it all off.

_The fake consulting detective’s brother is one M. Holmes. Apparently, he occupies a minor position in the British government. Let’s hope his job consists of nothing more than the doling out of tea to the people ruling our country. We wouldn’t want to be governed by someone whose brother makes a living out of swindling the hard-working police and the tax-paying general public._

Signed, Kitty Riley.

Mycroft balls his fist. 

Then, ever so slowly, he relaxes his hand again.

***

The minute-hand on his watch reaches eleven thirty when there’s a knock on his door.

“Enter,” he calls. Anthea looks in, uncertainty clouding her gaze.

“Sir, there’s a gentleman, a Mr Winshaw, who claims he has an appointment with you.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Mycroft re-joins genially. “I do apologise, my dear. I should have informed you to expect this visitor. Pray, do come in Mr Winshaw. What will you have?”

The man, a ginger nobody, blinks up at him. His whole stance exudes the fear of a trapped little animal – his colouring suggesting a squirrel – caught on the ground by a famished fox.

“Uuh… nothing. Thank you… Mr Holmes,” he stammers.

“Tea will do for me, Anthea. Prince of Wales, I think. And I suggest you prepare Mr Winshaw a coffee. He might find himself in need of it, after all.”

Anthea takes her leave and Mycroft gestures in the direction of the Chesterfield in front of the chimneypiece.

“Please, Mr Winshaw, make yourself comfortable.”

Darting furtive looks around the chamber the man perches himself on the edge of the sofa.

Mycroft installs himself in the seat opposite and temples his fingers in front of his mouth.

“So, Mr Winshaw,” he drawls at last. “I do hope you find yourself in good health again?”

No, the man is not a squirrel but a rabbit, a tiny, tiny rabbit, jollily living his tiny, tiny rabbit life until a minute ago and now staring into the headlights hurtling towards him, spelling his doom.

“Uhhm, I…” he begins.

“And Mrs Winshaw and the children? Leo and Mary, isn’t it? Both doing splendid in school, I’ve heard. Mary working hard at that blemish of an A- for history. And Leo the captain of the football team. I’ve got quite a soft spot for football, you know? Never miss a major match, except for that one that took place during that unpleasantness with the South-Africans – Yes, Anthea, do come in.”

His assistant enters with a tray stacked with his tea, the requested coffee and a plate of sandwiches – watercress and cucumber by the look of them.

“Excellent.” Mycroft rubs his hands while she positions the tray on the coffee table. 

“Maybe… maybe I’ll have that coffee after all, if you please,” pipes up the rabbit.

“Of course, I knew you would. Anthea always serves my own special brand. The beans are grown on St Helena, a most pleasant taste in my opinion, what with the fruity palate, and the smell…”

Closing his eyes in bliss Mycroft inhales deeply. Upon opening them again he finds his hireling gaping at him. Huge half-circles of moisture are darkening the material of his shirt beneath his armpits.

“Is it too hot for you in here?” Mycroft asks pleasantly before taking a nifty bite out of his sandwich.

“No… no…” 

“Good. How much did they pay you?”

His question makes Mr Winshaw turn green so fast Mycroft is momentarily afraid the man is going to throw up, all over his silk Qom rug. Thankfully, he manages to knit himself together again. Apparently, there’s more to him than meets the eye.

“I don’t know what you mean,” the man manages.

“Oh, come now, Mr Winshaw. You know perfectly well what I’m referring to. If seen in a certain light one could almost find an excuse for your action. After all, as a doting parent and seeing what a talented pupil your boy is, it’s only natural you should want him installed safe and sound on Harrow hill. The annual fees are just staggering, aren’t they?”

Winshaw swallows – his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in his scrawny neck – and fortifies himself with a big gulp of Mycroft’s hideously expensive coffee.

“Yes,” he says at last.

“Are you confirming the fact that thirty-three thousand pounds a year is quite a lot of money or the fact that you are a despicable traitor?”

“I’m not a traitor. I didn’t do anything.”

The sweat circles have grown another half an inch.

“You called in and declared yourself sick. Thus you facilitated the planting of the person that did indeed manage to wreck great damage to our security systems, endangering our nation.”

“I… I never meant…”

“No you meant to send your boy to a school where he can rub shoulders with his betters. You’re not to worry – he will do so and Mary will be allowed to attend Wycombe Abbey school. Consider it a compensation for the loss of their father at such an early age.”

Mycroft whips his phone out of his jacket pocket and presses the zero.

“Yes.”

“I expect a full confession, no detail omitted.”

“Yes.”

Ending the call with a flick of his thumb Mycroft continues to talk into the phone for Winshaw’s benefit.

“You have my leave to resort to torture if you have to though I don’t believe that will be quite necessary. Provide him with a pen and paper and allow him five minutes to write a note for his wife once you’re done. A hanging would be his most likely choice of doing away with himself, I think but I will leave this decision to your own resources.”

Had the circumstances been different the sharp intake of breath coming out of the direction of the sofa might have been satisfying.

“Chin up,” Mycroft tells the blubbering Winshaw after he’s stashed his phone into his pocket again. “Your children are going to profit from the best education. I’m a Harrow boy myself so I know what I’m talking about.”

He pushes himself out of his chair and walks over to the door. 

“Anthea,” he addresses his assistant. “Please go and inspect whether they’ve put a bucket with ice and a bottle of Highland Spring water in front of Lord Blackpoole’s chair for the meeting at twelve thirty. Remember the tantrum he threw three weeks ago?”

“Yes, Sir. I told them expressly…”

“Of course,” he interrupts her. “Still, better safe than sorry and Anthea, do ask the men waiting in the corridor to come in, would you.”

“Yes, Sir.”

She hurries away, her high heels digging into the thick carpet with sharp little thrusts of purpose. Mycroft turns to face his visitor.

“I trust there won’t be any need to restrain you.”

Stunned, Winshaw shakes his head.

“Please,” he whispers. “Have mercy…” He covers his face with his hands. 

“I’ve always understood people ask for mercy from their Maker,” Mycroft informs him. “You find yourself in fortuitous circumstances then, I suppose, as you will meet Him shortly.”

He seats himself behind his desk. “Yes,” he answers the short rap on his door. It flies open and two security men bustle into the room.

“Oh God,” Winshaw moans.

“That’s the spirit, Winshaw. Let Him help you in your ordeal, no one else is going to.”

***

_No one is helping him in his ordeal. He can’t even grieve. For to grieve would be to betray Sherlock. Sherlock can’t be dead. He, Mycroft Holmes himself, doesn’t want his brother to be dead so he isn’t. The despicable Winshaw is dead by now. But he’s nothing, nothing. Sherlock however…_

_Oh god, Sherlock._

***


	5. All dark and comfortless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With closed eyes he draws the sleeve across his face, willing his imagination to transform it into his brother’s elegant hand, long tapering fingers splayed wide as Sherlock traces them down from Mycroft’s forehead over his cheeks, brushing gently along his jaw and then further down, past his collarbones, playing with the whorls on his chest…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> due to happy circumstances in RL for wellingtongoose she had to give up betaing the story. Thankfully frozen_delight was so kind as to agree to take over from her. Thank you both, enormously

It’s been a long and, frankly, tiring day. What with two Committee meetings, his weekly talk with the Prime Minister, and the necessity to discreetly rap the Secretary of State for Communities and Local Government on the knuckles for the disastrous way he runs the department, or rather, doesn’t. In addition, he enjoyed a traditional English high tea – served by a demurely smiling Anthea – with the ambassadors for India and Pakistan. They were invited to discuss the sudden increase of hostilities in Kashmir in a civilised setting but – both men being passionate cricket players – they nearly came to blows over the chances of Pakistan winning the next _ICC World Twenty20_ , so, even though Mycroft worked hard at re-establishing a congenial atmosphere, he isn’t entirely satisfied with the outcome of his little undertaking.

Thankfully, there’d been a mere five books of outgoing correspondence to read through and sign. The incoming letters he left for Anthea to deal with, together with the unspoken direction to inform him of anything which might be worthy of his attention.

In between he dealt with the Winshaw unpleasantness and its aftermath, the directives for Sherlock’s funeral, and flipped through yet more files on men between six feet and six feet two who slightly resembled and yet weren’t Sherlock. In addition he sent off the paperwork for the exhumation of the corpse of Martin Benjamin Payne – thirty-one, single, graduate of the University of London and probably dead from an unnatural cause – and conducted by telephone the two interviews he’d agreed to. The first one, with _The Times_ , was a straightforward affair. The second, the _The Financial Times_ , required a more delicate approach, as the journalist of this broadsheet had expressed a concern the downfall of the once highly popular consulting detective might lead to another plunge in consumer optimism, thus further worsening the apparently never-ending recession fatiguing the country.

All in all he can’t say the idea of rounding off his day by entertaining Molly Hooper appeals to him. Yet, here she is, having dressed for the occasion – to judge by the ensemble that is revealed when he helps her out of her coat.

The poor woman really does suffer from a most unfortunate taste with regard to her choice of clothing.

She’s all skittering nervousness. The impressive wood-panelling and exquisitely crafted William Morris umbrella stand are ignored, her gaze flitting to the door in the far wall instead. This door does in fact lead to the servant staircase but of course Miss Hooper is unacquainted with the general outline of the house. 

“Is Sherlock inside?” she asks. A light rose colour has overtaken her cheeks. The tip of her tongue flicks out and travels her lower lip, smudging her lipstick. 

“Please,” Mycroft smiles down at her, opening the door to the drawing room and ushering her inside. 

Even though he’s perched behind her, he can see her eyes scanning the room in search of the one presence she won’t find here. The Burne-Jones gracing the wall above the Liberty cabinet is favoured with nothing but a passing glance. Her face, when she turns towards him, is a study in dismay.

Mycroft _does feel_ for her. To have all one’s hopes, one’s expectations of seeing the person one loves dashed so cruelly. His sympathy flows out to her and he scrapes his throat behind his fist with averted eyes to allot her some time to recover.

“Where is he?” Her voice trembles.

“Miss Hooper, please do take a seat.” Taking her by the elbow Mycroft guides her towards the sofa and presses her gently on the shoulder to induce her to sit down. She complies, eyelids blinking rapidly.

“Can I offer you a drink?” he enquires.

“No… yes… A glass of water. Sherlock isn’t here, is he?”

Fixing her with his gaze Mycroft tells her, “No, I’m afraid my brother had to leave quite suddenly this morning.”

“Oh,” her huge Bambi eyes fly open in shock. “Oh… I… But everything is all right with him, isn’t it? It’s not like… He’s not in danger or anything?” In her lap her hands are fluttering, two nervous little birds suddenly aware of the buzzard circling in the sky high above.

“No,” he confirms in a steady tone, handing her the glass. “Evidently, Sherlock is drawn to danger like a fly to the honey pot. Rest assured, however, Miss Hooper. My brother is as safe as the British government will let him be.”

“Oh.” A gust of air is forced out of her throat, relief washing over her features. Both her hands grip the glass fervently and she brings them up to take a sip. The guilelessness of her action reminds Mycroft of the little girl he’d noticed during his Sunday stroll in St James’s Park last week, obediently drinking her glass of milk, legs dangling from the too big terrace chair onto which her mother had installed her.

She _is_ like a child. She trusts him, trusts him completely, trusts him to keep Sherlock safe, and for one terrible moment – which lasts about two seconds – he battles the urge to scream at her. He wants to haul down the shimmering gossamer curtains billowing in front of her as she gawps at her surroundings, to raze the walls of her fairy castle to the ground, to cause the gates of heaven and hell to crash on top of her in a wild _Götterdämmerung_ of hate and despair. The despair he endures – looking down on her gullible small figure.

However, he’s never been a Wagner devotee – all that strong emotion allowed to run amok in a violent attack on the listener’s ears – so he sends her a succouring smile and inquires whether she would like her glass refilled.

“I don’t know. Oh…” With an anguished mewl Miss Hooper jumps up from the sofa like an automaton, startling him. The tumbler falls onto the thick rug and rolls away. “If Sherlock’s … You can’t want me here. You must be so busy all the time.” Clasping her bag against her side she starts making for the door. 

“Miss Hooper, please,” Mycroft intercepts her. All of a sudden, it’s imperative Miss Hooper remains in the room, in this house – with him – for the duration of the evening. Molly Hooper is the only person of his acquaintance who is convinced Sherlock is alive. Mycroft requires her certainty to brace himself and bind him to a reality that he needs to be true – no, he reprimands himself, a reality that _is_ the truth. 

“Sherlock wrote you a letter to apologise for his absence and thank you once again for everything you’ve done,” entices Mycroft. “Here.” He whisks up the envelope from the cabinet and hands it over. She accepts the white square with a dazed look, which transforms into a beam of happiness when she reads her name in the handwriting that must be instantly recognisable to her.

“Thank you!” Her voice is almost jubilant. “Thank you so much. Do you mind if I read it here?”

“Please, I insist you read it here. And you _must stay_ and have dinner with me, Miss Hooper, Molly. It’s what Sherlock would have – what Sherlock wants.”

“Do you think so? I’ll stay then.” On her way back to the sofa she nearly stumbles over the glass. “Oops, oh, I’m so sorry. I can be so careless.” She bends to retrieve the glass and nearly bumps into him upon straightening, the by now familiar fierce blush setting fire to her face.

“Oh, Mr Holmes, I’m so…”

“Never mind,” Mycroft shushes her. “My given name is Mycroft, by the way. So, you’ll have another drink then?” 

“Yes, please, Mr Holmes, uhhm… Mycroft that is.” With a brave smile she thrusts the glass in his direction and sinks down on the sofa to open her letter. Mycroft busies himself in front of the drinks cabinet. The bottle of _Laphroaig_ sends him a seducing wink but he resists its allurement and opts for pouring himself a glass of water as well. To start drinking now would be a seriously bad idea.

After putting the glasses onto the table Mycroft arranges himself in the easy chair opposite the sofa to observe his guest. Molly’s eyes are flying over the paper, her lips incanting every single word. At long last she tears herself loose and looks up at him with moistened eyes. She pants, ever so slightly.

“May I keep it?” she asks, guarding the sheet against her breast.

How old is she? Thirty-two at least. Can any woman that age be so naïve? Even his sweet mother, pampered by a devoted nanny as a child and doted upon by an adoring husband, was more worldly-wise than this perfect example of artlessness turned into flesh.

“Please do,” Mycroft smiles. “After all, he wrote it for you.”

***

“I… I… please, I don’t want to offend you, Mr Hol-, I mean Mycroft of course.” 

She pauses. Mycroft wiggles his eyebrows at her in an encouraging manner and tips up her nearly empty glass with another splash of _Huber Sauvignon Blanc 2007._

“Speak your mind, Molly,” he says. “It will be a refreshing divergence from the tête-à-têtes I find myself typically engaged in.”

“Really? Oh, how awful.” She giggles before falling silent again, glancing around the kitchen. Mycroft has proposed they enjoy their meal in these more homely surroundings, explaining the dining table seats twenty and the room doesn’t abound in a cosy atmosphere.

“You have a nice kitchen,” she forwards. “I think my living room would easily fit into it.”

“That isn’t what you were about to say, Molly.”

“Oh no, no. I was going to say I had never expected… well, first of all I had never expected Sherlock to ask me to help him. I’m so happy he did. It’s, oh… such an honour. But then he went on and I got such a surprise. For I thought John would know all about what Sherlock was doing, he was part of the plot, but Sherlock said, no, John didn’t know a thing. And then he told me _you_ were in fact helping him and I had only ever heard him scoff at you, and make silly jokes at John about how annoying and fat you are and you are neither.”

The corner of Mycroft’s mouth quirks. “Thank you, Molly.”

Despite the amount of wine she’s consumed the blush manages to steal over her face. To give her some recovery time Mycroft averts his gaze.

“Pray continue,” he murmurs, stealthily checking his watch. In another two minutes he will excuse himself once more to check the latest batch of files. Molly accepts his occasional disappearances from the room quite placidly, each time obviously not having left her seat while she sat waiting for his return.

“It’s just, nothing Sherlock ever said, not that he talked a lot to me except to tell me to do things for him – I didn’t mind though, not really – would have let me to believe you actually are that close.”

“We aren’t,” Mycroft affirms. “One could travel the globe twice and still not have found a pair of siblings which had less in common than my brother and I. However, I presume there is some truth to the expression blood is thicker than water.”

Molly nods. “It varies with the temperature but basically that is true.”

“Of course you would know,” he concedes. “Now, you must excuse me again for a moment, Molly. I have a small matter to attend to.”

“Oh, Mr… Mycroft. I thought Sherlock’s work was difficult but whatever it is you do must be even worse.”

“It’s nothing,” he murmurs and takes his leave of her with a small bow.

No Sherlock, no matter how many photographs pass in front of his eyes. Of course not, he chides himself. By now Sherlock’s body has already been dissolved by acid, or it is hidden deep inside some abandoned mine in Wales. Sherlock is dead, he should bloody well accept the fact. His brother jumped from Bart’s rooftop and now he’s gone. The funeral will be in four days. It has all been arranged meticulously. After all, Mycroft himself wrote the script for the ceremony.

His phone buzzes. Grateful for the chance at a diversion from his thoughts he accepts the call, even though the identity of his caller informs him that the news won’t cheer him up.

“The exhumation will start in an hour. And I’ve got a blood type for you. B positive.”

_B positive. Sherlock._

“The blood can be used to run a DNA-test.”

“That won’t be necessary. Anything else?”

“The car is useless. No further tampering with our systems has been found so far. We’re still looking though.”

“Good.” With that word Mycroft ends the conversation. He throws the phone onto his desk and buries his face in his hands.

A minute. He entitles himself to one minute during which the all-out panic can go berserk in his mind before he clamps down on it again.

At the end of the sixty seconds he shakes himself loose and draws his hand over his face to install the pleasant smile for Molly Hooper’s benefit once more.

In the kitchen Molly’s eyes have latched themselves onto strawberry pavlova standing just out of her reach on the table.

“Would you like some?” Mycroft asks.

“Oh,” another fiery blush, “I, no, I really shouldn’t . I’m already two and a half pounds overweight.”

“Nonsense.” Mycroft dips the silver serving spoon into the pavlova and deals her a big slice of the dessert. “Even if you were it suits you perfectly. My first rule in life is to indulge freely, but only in what is worthy of being indulged in.”

“Uhhm, I see, that makes sense I suppose. Well, cheers then.” A heaped-up spoon enters her mouth and she closes her eyes in bliss. As few cooks in the British Isles have mastered the art of making a perfect meringue as well as Mycroft’s cook he can well imagine the pleasure washing over her tongue. Personally, the thought of the smallest bite makes him want to throw up. 

“Cheers.” Mycroft takes a small sip of his wine. “Molly, you must understand, for the sake of Sherlock’s well-being and in order to enable him to eliminate Moriarty’s network, John must believe Sherlock to be dead. He will be watched closely at all times by Moriarty’s former associates and we both know that John isn’t very good at keeping his thoughts to himself. The minute John becomes aware Sherlock is indeed alive, Sherlock’s death-warrant will have been signed.”

Molly nods, her head fervently bobbing up and down in her eagerness to demonstrate her complete comprehension of what he’s telling her.

“Yes, yes,” she chirps. “Of course. You don’t have to be afraid, Mycroft. I won’t give the game away. I do so feel for poor John, I’m sure I’ll start to cry the minute I see him. Yesterday evening I sat on the sofa with Toby, watching the news, and I found myself crying because of all the terrible slander against Sherlock, even though I know it’s nothing but lies.”

“Indeed. Still, you’ll see John at the funeral…”

“Oh, I’m always crying at funerals. I even cried when Aunt Rita died and she’d been nothing but mean to my mother.”

“That’s most comforting intelligence, Molly. Thank you. I’m sorry to hear about your mother’s troubles. I’m convinced she forgave her husband’s sister in the end.”

“Oh yes. Aunt Rita asked her… but, how do you even know?”

***

When Molly takes her leave shortly after midnight she hesitates briefly before lifting herself up on tiptoe to brush his cheek with her lips.

“Thank you for a very nice evening, Mycroft,” she says.

“The pleasure was mine entirely,” Mycroft declares in his sincerest tones. “And Molly, I’d almost forgotten.” He reaches inside his jacket for his pocketbook and pulls out five twenty pound notes and a business card. “It would only look natural if you’d supply a wreath or a bouquet for the funeral. After all, most people will be aware you and Sherlock spent a lot of time together. Sherlock doesn’t want you to put up any unnecessary expenses on his behalf, so here.” In the course of the evening he’s decided this would be the best moment to make her accept the money.

“No, oh no, I can’t accept that.” With a vehement gesture she shakes her head. “I won’t. I’ve already found the undertaker in the phone book and ordered a bouquet.”

“Molly, Sherlock wants you to,” Mycroft coaxes her.

Apparently, the mention of his brother’s name works wonders, it is enough to persuade her. “Oh, well, if Sherlock wanted… Thank you, I guess.” Shy again, Molly’s fist crumples the notes while her other hand clamps her bag against her chest with an awkward gesture. Outside the gate the engine of the car that is to take her home is running.

In front of him Molly takes a deep encouraging gulp of breath. “Uhhm, Mycroft. Would you mind… if you speak… if Sherlock, well, I’m sure the two of you have contact every now and then. If you do, please tell him to be careful, would you? You don’t have to say I asked you to. But you know, he… he can be so reckless and oh… I wouldn’t know what to do with myself if he were get hurt… to… to… _die_.” 

Tears blink in her eyes. She will indeed perform most convincingly during the service. In response, Mycroft clasps her hand and gives it a gentle squeeze.

“I will, Molly. I understand completely. For you see, my brother and I may not always see eye to eye but somehow I am quite attached to him.”

***

After he’s closed and bolted the door, he breaks into a run to his study. The drawer is wrenched out of the desk and he punches the digits of the safe with trembling fingers. He doesn’t slow down until the picture of Sherlock is wedged safely in his hands.

It shows Sherlock as few people have ever seen him, laughing happily with a free and easy smile, eyes creased and glowing with merriment. He’s standing in a sun-drenched rocky glade with his arms thrown wide, clad in a white T-shirt, khaki shorts and sturdy walking boots, the straps of his backpack digging into his shoulders. 

Mycroft took the picture during their trip to the _Monti Madonie_ , almost nine years ago. Looking down at the ripples of sunlight drenching Sherlock’s chest Mycroft can feel the heat of the sun beating down on him again. He’d been hot and bothered and slightly annoyed with Sherlock, who’d been impervious to the oppressive heat, scampering around Mycroft as quick and agile as a mountain goat while Mycroft lumbered on, swatting at the occasional droning fly.

Sherlock dashed off into a ravine suddenly, leaving Mycroft no alternative but to follow him down the goat trail at his own more sedate pace, calling Sherlock’s name and receiving nothing but the sound of rolling small rocks and the whipping of the branches of trees and the undergrowth for his answer. 

At long last he had reached the bottom and found it to be a delightful valley, basking in the sunlight and yet pleasantly cool thanks to the stream that ran in the middle.

“Isn’t it glorious?” Sherlock shouted, throwing his arms wide to show off his discovery to Mycroft, who felt the corners of his mouth tugging upwards at his brother’s enthusiasm. 

“Hold that.” And Mycroft lifted his small camera and took the photo he’s currently staring at.

“I’m going for a swim,” Sherlock announced and he started to untie his shoelaces, hopping on one foot while he did so, looking for all the world like Puck in the midst of one of his antics in _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ , except there was no one to watch him but Mycroft.

“We didn’t bring our swimming shorts, or towels,” objected Mycroft.

“Who needs those? The sun will dry us. Oh Mycroft, come on, don’t be _boring_!”

With those words Sherlock flicked off his clothes and launched himself into the stream – a wispy wood sprite – laughing and splashing in riotous pleasure. Initially Mycroft had looked on disapprovingly – even though he couldn’t but admire the gracious lines of Sherlock’s palely flashing limbs, God help him – but the sun was hot, and the water looked enticingly fresh and clear, and Sherlock called at him not to be a spoilsport, so in the end Mycroft had given in and stripped and entered the water. The arctic coldness of it was a shock but his body quickly adapted itself and soon he was gliding beside Sherlock with long languid strokes in the small pool where the stream widened out and the swift waters eased down momentarily.

Afterwards they sunned themselves on the rocks and Sherlock started kissing Mycroft, his kisses growing more insistent after a while, fingers sliding down Mycroft’s back, travelling over his chest. Mycroft demurred, arguing they were _outside_ , slapping at Sherlock’s hands. 

All his modesty did was to cause the mirth bubbling in his brother’s chest. “Mycroft, you dolt, no one ever comes here and the only camera for miles around is stashed safely in your pocket.”

Mycroft was already hard, despite himself. Purring with delight Sherlock slithered down Mycroft’s body and took him in his mouth, deeply and assuredly. Gasping at the warm hot wetness Mycroft looked down and revelled anew in the stunning sight of his brother’s beautiful lips around his member, the depthless clarity of his gaze locking with Mycroft’s. He shouted his release, not caring whether he would be heard, his voice echoing off the rocks. 

When he felt he could breathe again he reached for Sherlock and brought him off with his hand, kissing him wildly and tasting himself on his brother’s lips. “Keep your eyes open,” he pleaded when he could feel him beginning to tense. “Please, let me see you, let me in.” He watched intently as he felt Sherlock’s seed spilling over his fingers – the warm essence of life – noticing every inadvertent shudder, the fluttering of his delicate lashes.

Now, Mycroft raises the photo to his lips and brushes its surface reverentially. “I love you,” he murmurs against Sherlock’s paper face. “I love you so. Please be alive, don’t be dead. Please.”

***

Martin Payne’s heart wasn’t in the best condition, certainly not for a thirty-one-year-old male, but, as expected, an ailment of the vital organ wasn’t what did him in. The rather heavy dose of botulinum did, though.

It turns out the pathologist on weekend duty who declared Payne had died of natural causes is a drunkard entangled in a messy divorce. Eventually Mycroft concludes that the man’s verdict wasn’t bought by Moriarty, but the result of his severe emotional instability. Thus, Mycroft resolves the incompetent _clod_ may cling to his sorry life, paying for his sins with a nasty interview with the General Medical Council to remind him he should pay better attention to his job in the future.

The search of Payne’s flat yields no useful information except for the fact that Moriarty couldn’t have found a better scion to pull off his dirty trick for him. Apart from being something of a computer wizard Payne was obviously heavily addicted to cocaine and the services of expensive escorts, both a lifestyle the average government wage for someone of his rank – without additional means – is unable to support. 

Great stashes of notes keep popping up out of the most unlikely nooks and crannies during the ransacking of the flat. All in all, the staggering amount of four hundred twenty seven thousand and eighteen hundred and sixty pounds in fifties and twenties ends up in a bin bag to be transported to Her Majesty’s treasury.

Martin Benedict Payne didn’t sell himself cheap. Sadly, Mycroft can’t ask him whether he considers the price was right.

***

If only he could _think_. 

The moment he sits down to analyse the situation, to extricate the different ropes that comprise the perplexing Gordian knot of Sherlock’s abduction, the all-out panic comes thundering down on him – a horde of menacing demons straight out of the apocalypse, whooping wildly and wielding their scythes as they go rampant in a carnival of bloodshed and destruction. Sweat beads his brow and all he can do is grip the armrests of his chair so hard his knuckles stand out white against the dark oak wood. 

His breathing is a struggle for survival. He is reduced to nothing but a primitive organism – a fish swept out of the sea onto dry land – fighting for air, fighting against the air that’s turned into a poisonous gas seeping into the room and trying to stifle him. It would be no use to storm outside, to draw deep into his lungs the everyday obnoxious gases of the traffic on Pall Mall, or the sweet perfumes exuded by the roses and jasmine in his garden, for once they’d enter his system – hauled in with big heaving gulps – they’d be transformed into the same paralysing toxin that reduces him to a gibbering, bungling piece of flotsam unworthy to prowl the earth.

And now he’s feeling sorry for himself.

_Oh God. Oh, Sherlock!_

***

The last transcendental notes of the violin die away and Mycroft blinks, then lifts himself from his seat in the front row to walk up to the dais and the pulpit erected next to the coffin. 

From his new vantage point he can take in all the members of the assembly. John’s eyes puncture him out of a face turned preternaturally white by shock and hatred. Molly and Mrs Hudson are huddled close together, sniffling into their handkerchiefs. Behind them Detective Inspector Lestrade’s baffled features inform Mycroft that the man is still trying to figure out whatever happened to cause his world to fall apart so suddenly; the woman officer Mycroft remembers from the lab sits slightly apart, casting an anxious glance in the direction of her boss every now and then. John, Mycroft noticed, most pointedly ignored her.

In the next row a rather fat man with glasses is seated, next to a shady-looking figure with a ponytail, a woman slightly younger than Mrs Hudson who is obviously connected to her in some way, and two young men who sit holding hands and reach to pat the elderly lady’s hand in turns. Mycroft suspects that these latter persons are Mrs Turner and her married ones. Apparently, John has got quite friendly with them lately.

The back rows are filled to overflowing with a host of people Mycroft can’t remember ever having met before. Every stratum of society appears to be represented, from track-suited people covered in tattoos to a frail old lady in a faded Burberry coat with a sensible pair of _Church’s_ slipped onto her still elegant feet. All Sherlock’s thankful clients, here to say goodbye to the man that helped them with their problems, whether it was keeping them out of jail or finding them a lost precious object. 

The coffin is hardly visible under a riot of flowers. Mycroft’s own overly ostentatious flower arrangement exceeds all the other wreaths and floral salutations in an outrageous explosion of white lilies and roses. It’s what people would have expected him to come up with, and so he has, although he abhors the tasteless onslaught on both the visual and the olfactory senses. An excess of hideously expensive red roses is Molly’s contribution, further embellished with a flaming red tape on which the sentence _I’ll always believe in you!_ is printed in gold letters. 

Next to these two enormities the other contributions pale in comparison. Nevertheless, Mycroft supposes he should be touched to find so many people were willing to fork out the – in some cases Mycroft suspects barely affordable – cash to express their admiration for Sherlock.

Mycroft clears his throat. 

A few dozen pairs of eyes lock onto his figure.

“Sherlock Holmes,” begins Mycroft, “was an obnoxious brat...”

A murmur of shocked outrage travels through the chapel. 

“… or so a lot of people often thought, my own person among them,” continues Mycroft. “However, as his good friend Doctor John Watson can confirm, he could also be incredibly generous, he sported a certain dry wit, and, in his own limited field, he was something of a genius.”

Several people nod in agreement. 

“We’ve just finished listening to some of the most beautiful music ever composed. The “ _Benedictus_ from Beethoven’s _Missa Solemnis_. Knowing the man my brother was, some of you may have been rather taken aback by this choice of music.” He pauses.

“However, many critics have been puzzled by the fact this music was written by Beethoven, so I suppose the music fits Sherlock’s character perfectly well. Quite apart from the fact that the _Benedictus_ is, in essence, a violin concerto, one of the finest among the genre, and Sherlock was, as some of you may be aware, an accomplished violinist himself.”

Molly’s tears flow freely by now. John’s face is a mask of hatred.

“My brother didn’t walk with God, or at least not with any of the concepts, spirits or persons commonly invoked by that name. His god, if we must name one, was truth.”

Mycroft lets his eyes travel over the people packed into the chapel.

“To enter this chapel you had to make your way past lines of people who claim they work to uncover the truth. They accuse my brother of having lived a life in the lie, of being a fraud. We all know, each and every one of us, that those accusations are incorrect. Most people say: ‘It’s printed in the papers, so it must be true’. Sadly, they don’t realise their approach ought to be: ‘It’s printed in the papers, so it must be false.’ ”

The man with the ponytail barks out a laugh. Mycroft raises his eyebrows in a brief gesture of acknowledgement.

“I suppose no one will ever understand why my brother decided to take his own life. Why he didn’t put up a fight. For I’m as convinced as you are that every accusation against him will turn out to be a fabricated falsehood. Thank you for believing in him.”

With his eyes he signals to Mr Campbell and the sounds of the _Largo_ of Corelli’s third church sonata start floating down over them.

***

“I told you family is all we have and now look what happened. How could you Mycroft?”

His brother’s landlady is staring up at him, fury issuing from every pore of her being.

“Mrs Hudson,” one of the married ones attempts to interfere.

“No, Richard, no!” She swats at the young man with the casually irritated hand one would employ to kill a mosquito. “How could you, Mycroft? Your own brother…oh.”

She reaches for her handkerchief and bursts into violent tears. For a moment Mycroft considers laying a comforting hand on her shoulder. He assumes the gesture wouldn’t be met with a great deal of enthusiasm, so he starts a careful study of the hickory wood of his umbrella handle to allow her some time to compose herself. 

After some wiping at her eyes with her handkerchief she addresses him again.

“I know there was no love lost between the two of you, but still… how could you betray him so? Your own little brother? John told me everything. Surely you could have got that awful man behind bars by other means.”

“Mrs Hudson, appearances…”

“I don’t want to hear, Mycroft. I’m not interested in any of your glib excuses. To me you’ll always be the man who drove his little brother to take his own life. You’re worse than Jacob, worse than Cain himself.”

Fiercely, she turns around and stalks off in the direction of John who was watching the scolding Mycroft received with a blank look.

“You mustn’t mind too much,” Richard says. “She’s terribly upset, John as well. Mrs Turner is pretty worried about them.”

“Quite. Thank you,” murmurs Mycroft, pivoting on his heels.

“Hey, look. Jesus…”

“What is it, darling?”

“That bloke, that creepy brother. Mrs Hudson gave him a dressing-down and I tried to tell him he shouldn’t mind too much and he just turned his back on me. Jesus, some people.”

Mycroft tunes them out in favour of John who now strides up to him and positions himself aggressively in Mycroft’s path.

“Nice speech, Mycroft,” he starts.

“Thank you, John. I hope it showed I gave the matter some thought,” Mycroft replies carefully.

“Didn’t hear a word of it. Just tell me, Mycroft. How much thought have you given to covering up your sorry role in causing Sherlock’s… Sherlock’s…” John blanches, a moist veil is drawn over his eyeballs.

“Sherlock’s suicide,” Mycroft completes John’s sentence for him. “Really, John, I’d say you’re being a bit overly dramatic. Surely my little slip of the tongue wouldn’t cause Sherlock to end his life in such a spectacular manner. I’m convinced the investigation will unearth a better reason for his sudden desire to do away with himself.”

“Somehow I’m think the investigation will show nothing at all and you will make sure it disappears in some dusty drawer. But I… I…”

Mycroft raises one eyebrow and looks down his nose at John. The pathetic threats would have been laughable, had the circumstances been different. “Are you trying to intimidate me John?” he asks, just to be certain.

“Yes. Yes I am, you sorry bastard.” 

John’s hands are balled up into fists at his side. Pointedly, Mycroft’s gaze travels down to those useless instruments of grief and despair and rests on the right one for a moment. He smiles.

“Honestly John, you disappoint me. Somehow, you always struck me as a man with some sense. Not overly much, but more than most people, certainly. I must say I’m glad Sherlock can’t hear you’re no better than the rest of them.”

While delivering these words he has already started turning around and walking towards the cemetery gate, swinging his umbrella back and forth. He ambles past the DI who stands arguing in a furious undertone with his assistant and the still quietly sniffling Molly.

Back in the car Mycroft closes the partition between the front seats and the backseat. All the way back to Pall Mall he sits staring out of the window, his eyes drinking in sight of people passing by in other cars, on bicycles, walking on the pavement. The sun has made an unexpected appearance after hiding behind the clouds all day, drenching everything in a softly glowing summery evening light, inducing men and women to lift their faces to catch a last stray caress of the golden rays. They laugh and smile.

Sherlock is not among them.

***

In his closet Mycroft lifts a sleeve of the purple dressing gown to his nose and inhales deeply. Hidden between the fibres of the silk are tiny particles of Sherlock’s skin, carrying his smell – that particular combination of almond milk soap, freshly laundered clothes with the faintest whiff of cigarette smoke hidden beneath, and a heady zest for life Mycroft loves to drown himself in, nudging his nose into the crook of Sherlock’s neck.

With closed eyes he draws the sleeve across his face, willing his imagination to transform it into his brother’s elegant hand, long tapering fingers splayed wide as Sherlock traces them down from Mycroft’s forehead over his cheeks, brushing gently along his jaw and then further down, past his collarbones, playing with the whorls on his chest…

“Sherlock.” 

Mycroft sighs his lover’s name into the sleeve. He lets it fall from his hands, the fabric flutters down with a discreet little whisper and Mycroft reaches for the tip of the sash and presses it to his mouth in a reverent brushing of his brother’s lips. Sherlock kisses back, opening his mouth to let Mycroft in and Mycroft yanks the robe from the hanger, burying his face deep into the luxurious folds to make love to his brother. One hand ghosts down along the material, caressing the flowing line of Sherlock’s back, his generous backside, and his hand cups his crotch and – through all the layers of governmental attire and sensuous theatricality – he bucks into it.

Sherlock laughs softly, in that half-mocking way he has that challenges Mycroft to bear down on him and overpower him and Mycroft drags him off to the first guestroom and tosses him onto the bed. With quick frantic tugs he undresses, flinging the clothes aside with uncharacteristic carelessness, and throws himself on his brother, conquering him and riding him with fierce abandon, spilling his seed deep inside him until he regains his senses again and feels the traces of the tears of agony drying on his cheeks. He raises his hand to swipe at them, before reaching for a tissue to clean both himself and the dressing robe. Falling back onto the sheets he cradles the silk in his arms and falls into an exhausted sleep.

***

The car glides along the rim of the lake. Undulating waves that spill themselves over the sand lap gently at the border, painting an ever-shifting pattern of ripples. The high moon bathes the great bowl of water in a silvery light, standing out against the dark shapes of the surrounding hills.

Ahead of them the road unfurls itself in the stark beam of the front lights, cutting their way through the night surrounding them. Mycroft doesn’t know for how long they’ve been driving, it could have been hours, even days, stealing through the blackness, fleeing the dawn’s grasping fingertips.

The gentle sway of the vehicle informs Mycroft they’ve rounded another curve and then – unexpectedly – the car draws to a halt.

“We’re here,” the chauffeur says. Mycroft nods and reaches for the handle of his umbrella. He finds it’s the one with the malacca cane handle, a present from Sherlock for his thirty-fifth birthday. The door swings open and he steps out. Upon looking up he’s dismayed to discover the man holding the door open isn’t his own chauffeur, James, but a replacement. The next second recognition hits him, it’s Winshaw. 

But he’s been dead these past four days. He must be, for Mycroft ordered his execution. What new terror is this? Does he now have to find out his instructions are no longer followed through to the letter?

“Is anything wrong, Sir,” Winshaw asks in a deferential tone.

“No, your tie,” manages Mycroft, indicating with his hand at his own tie where Winshaw’s is sitting slightly askew.

“My sincere apologies, Sir,” Winshaw answers, tugging at the wilful piece of clothing. “I honestly do not know what’s wrong with it these last few days, I keep redoing it.” His hands fly wildly in front of his throat. When they fall away again the buttons of his collar are undone and Mycroft is confronted with the angry rope burn on Winshaw’s throat.

“Better, Sir?”

“Yes,” Mycroft answers in order not to have to look at the dark band twisting over the whitened skin any longer. “Remind me, please. Where are we exactly?”

“It’s through there, Sir.” Winshaw points in the direction of the other side of the road and Mycroft’s eyes detect a high garden wall covered with dark ivy. A breeze rustles the leaves, whipping up silvery glints of reflected moonlight, turning the wall into a living, breathing thing. A huge, scaly fish – or a dragon. Set into the wall is a small wooden door, no wider than a sliver of eye seen between half-closed lids.

“Thank you,” Mycroft says. He straightens his shoulders and strolls up to the wall, aiming for a certain casualness in his bearing. 

“Good luck, Sir,” Winshaw calls out after him. Mycroft doesn’t answer. Behind him he hears the door of the car fall shut. The engine roars to life and the vehicle speeds away, leaving him alone in the gleaming moonlight.

There is no door handle, only a rusty ring. Tentatively, Mycroft’s fingertips nudge the naked dry wooden planks of the door. It gives way easily, swinging open on creaking hinges. The door is too low for Mycroft to be able to look through the now open doorway without bending his head. Gripping his umbrella tightly, wishing he’d brought one of his solid stick ones, Mycroft ducks his head and steps into whatever lies on the other side of the wall.

He’s instantly surrounded by an even deeper darkness. Great trees tower above him; they must be firs to block the moonlight so absolutely. He blinks, his eyes grabbing wildly for the merest glimmer of light to latch themselves onto, but they detect nothing except for darkness absolute. 

With his free hand he feels behind him, reaching for the door, but all his hand meets is empty nothingness and he realises it must have fallen shut behind him.

The most dreadful fear steals upon him. 

Calm down, he tells himself, calm down now. After thirteen seconds Mycroft has his breathing under control once more. Now think, he instructs himself.

His left hand brushes past the cashmere of his jacket pocket and an unfamiliar object inside. After a brief inner debate whether this is a wise move he inserts his fingertips into the pocket. They encounter a small phallus of steel, its surface crisscrossed with lines for a better grip. Upon further reconnoitring he discovers one end is formed of a different material. It feels like glass. A flashlight. His trembling fingers bring it to the surface, they twist and turn, and a bright beam of yellow light shatters the darkness.

Heaving a sigh of relief Mycroft pivots on his heels. The door has indeed fallen shut. Mycroft reaches for a ring or handle but he discovers none and upon looking more closely he discovers that there is indeed no implement attached to this side of the door to open it. He feels with his hand around the edges, searching for a crack or split to slot in his fingertips, but on this side of the wall the door is made out of one solid piece of wood, fitting the frame perfectly.

Mycroft falls down on his knees, his hand scrabbling at the underside of the door. All his fingertips encounter is a flat even surface. When he aims the flashlight’s beam at the door he sees it isn’t real. It’s a perfect _trompe l’oeil_ , painted on the wall to mock him.

Recognising the futility of his endeavour Mycroft sends the beam travelling up the wall. It rises ten foot at least, plastered smoothly and recently distempered, without a foothold to help him scale the height.

With crushing certainty Mycroft _knows_ he can travel along the perimeter of the whole wall without encountering an exit. The only way out of this prison is through the inky blackness of the wood. Bracing himself Mycroft uses the flashlight to find a path between the towering trees.

Once among the trees his ears are attacked by overwhelming silence. Now he can no longer discern them he realises that, near the wall, the night had been filled with sounds. The rustling of tiny animals, the screeches of a hunting owl. He had been surrounded with life, other creatures breathing and striving to find an existence for themselves, while out here he is truly and utterly alone. 

An all-pervading dampness attaches itself to the fabric of his suit, invading the fibres, creeping past the cotton of his shirt, the silk of his underwear and settling clammily on his skin, claiming him and becoming a part of him. 

What’s worse, though, is the suffocating smell of death and decay, as if he isn’t trashing through a wood but threading his way along a burial ground, every grave opened up, a huge heap of earth with a shovel stuck into it lying to the side.

Shivering Mycroft hurries on through the darkness, stumbling over an upturned root or a fallen branch every now and then.

Ahead of him the beam of the flashlight starts to flicker. Mycroft growls, how is it possible the batteries are dying already, he hasn’t been running through these woods too long now, has he? Not for more than half an hour at the most. His hand reaches for his pocket watch to check and that moment the light dies.

“No,” Mycroft shouts, shaking the flashlight so wildly it flies from his hands, to land with a soft thud on the needles coating the forest floor.

Mycroft closes his eyes in desperate resignation. Opening them again doesn’t make a difference at all. The same inky blackness meets him.

He refuses, he flatly refuses, to fall down on his knees again and grope for the flashlight. Some ghostly presence will have crept up and stolen it or it will have changed itself into a snake and slithered away. Apart from that, God knows what his hands might run into down on that unholy ground he’s been covering.

Fifteen seconds to regain his composure and then he will go on with his hands stuck out in front of him.

He starts counting them down in a loud voice. At the count of nine he’s blinded by the great flash of dizzying light flaring up right in front of him. Blinking fervently his eyes adjust themselves to the great influx of brightness. His ears are assaulted by the steady drone of a pulsing dance beat. 

Mycroft looks.

Mycroft gapes. 

His hands fly up and come to rest against the thick slab of glass, inadvertently scrabbling against the shiny smooth surface while his eyes fly over the scene rolled out for their scrutiny.

He’s looking into a big hall, bedecked in costly brocades and rugs draped over the inlaid marble floor. The walls are covered in gold leaf, the huge mantelpiece is a hefty slab of porphyry, its supports cut into the image of two frolicking satyrs.

The room is sparsely furnished with some sofas and great potted palms. The rugs on the floor are covered with a heap of cushions instead and these sport a seething, crawling horde of depraved humanity.

Men and women are splayed everywhere. They raise glasses to their lips, or the whole bottle. They tug at their cigarettes with dissatisfied, sneering mouths. Others amble up to the grand table poised in the middle of the chamber to bend their nose into the great pile of white powder heaped on top of it, or stick a spoon into the great silver bowl standing beside, tiny droplets of water beading its surface and filled to overflowing with a dark, glittering mass of caviar.

Most of them are in a state of undress way past the general immodesty promoted by the fashion industry. Horrified, Mycroft averts his gaze from where it chanced between a woman’s parted thighs, only to have it land on the hand of the man masturbating to the sight of two women kissing and working their hands between each other’s legs.

Disgusted, Mycroft makes to move away but he finds he’s literally rooted to the ground. When he looks down he can’t see his feet any longer. They’re hidden beneath a dark-grey smooth surface laid out beneath the window.

He looks over his shoulder and discovers the wood has disappeared and he is indeed standing in the midst of a great burial ground. Deciding he prefers the sight of the living over that of the dead he swivels his head back to the window again.

Right in front of him a couple has materialised. The woman is on all fours, puffing on a cigarette with a look of profound boredom while behind her a man is pounding into her with vigorous thrusts, chasing an orgasm that refuses to come. The woman cranes her head around, her eyes passing the spot where Mycroft is standing without a flicker of acknowledgement.

“Fuck you,” she says, “aren’t you done yet, you nasty piece of shite. I need to piss, you wanker.”

“Who said I’m stopping you, bitch,” the man growls, yanking her by her hair, “your cunt is drier than a desert. A little water might help.”

To shield himself from what is about to happen Mycroft buries his face in his hands. He’s relieved to find he’s still got free usage of those.

Once he dares to look again the couple has mercifully split up and gone their separate ways. Now a man is seated in front of the glass who sits surveying the scene while sipping his whisky. Mycroft taps the glass with his fingertips. The man takes another sip. Mycroft thrums at the glass with his fingers. Nothing happens. Mycroft starts pounding the glass with his fists, he shouts, he yells for attention. No reaction at all. He can see and hear everything that’s going on in the room but they aren’t even aware of what lies beyond, or if they are, they don’t care.

Their reality is the only one that exists for them. Mycroft might have been watching a film, a so-called adult canal on the TV-circuit in the five-star hotel room Anthea has booked for him for the duration of a conference. The actors playing their part aren’t aware of the fact he’s watching them.

His hand fingers the jacket pocket where they found the flashlight earlier in a vain search for the remote control. If only he were able to switch off his awareness, to have oblivion descend on him with one click of a button.

Instead, in the far wall two great doors he hadn’t noticed before are flung open wide in a grand theatrical gesture. They crash into the wall with a resounding boom and the deafening music is switched off, the laughter and shouting ebbing down to a murmur of expectation. Beyond the doors a faint red light glows, shadows dancing over the nether walls, cast by a roaring fire in the background. A small figure materialises in the backroom and strolls into the hall, hands in the trouser pockets of his _Vivienne Westwood_ suit.

“Hi there,” he says, his gaze shifting swiftly over the hushed assembly. “Oh, why are you all so quiet? I hope you’re all having a grand old time. Come on, I had hoped you would be a little more lively. Oh…” He blushes modestly when a woman saunters up to him and kisses him on the top of his head. “Thank you, darling. You’re sooo sweet.”

“Here Jim,” she says. “Have a glass of champie.”

“Oh, Keira. How generous of you. Now I suggest you keep your hands to yourself, you nasty little whore, or I’ll have you thrown out.”

The woman scurries away, her handsome features disfigured by terror.

“Now, where was I?” Moriarty lays a finger against his nose in an attitude of deep thought. “Ah yes, I remember.” The finger rips the air in triumphant eureka. 

“My new toy. Oooh, you’re all going to _hate poor little me_ for he’s sooo delicious, soooo distracting, I won’t have any time left to deal with you sorry lot.”

Grinning, he sets his eyes travelling over the room, gliding past the window, over the ceiling, the potting palms. He’s most carefully avoiding to flick his glance over any of the people in the chamber, choosing to have it land on the mantelpiece instead.

“However,” Moriarty giggles. “You all know how generous I am. Well, I am, aren’t I.”

He falls silent and waits until the first wavering voice presents itself, soon followed by others. “Yes Jim, you’re great, you’re wonderful.”

Moriarty stands listening to the rising clamour of voices with a benign smile on his face, hand clasped to his heart in astonishment at such an overwhelming tribute.

“Thank you, thank you.” He bows to all sides, finally bringing up his hands in a shushing gesture.

“You’re all darlings. Therefore, I’ve decided you may have a look at him, but only if you promise me first you won’t touch him.”

“Oh no Jim, we wouldn’t dare to. We won’t,” several people call out.

“Fine then.” Moriarty whips around. “Bring him in,” he commands.

And there, like Mycroft suddenly finds he knew all along, is Sherlock. Two bulky thugs, rolling the tattoos on their biceps, drag him into the room. He’s naked, except for the purple dressing gown – the paisley patterns shimmers in the lights – and the pair of ermine-lined handcuffs around his wrists. His curls fall messily across his forehead and there’s a bruise on his left cheekbone, but otherwise he appears to be unharmed. His toes trail past the marble, hitch themselves on the edge of a carpet but he’s pulled on relentlessly until they come to a stop in the middle of the room.

“Well, isn’t he the most amazing beauty?” coos Jim. “Black Beauty I call him. A most fitting name in my humble opinion. Oh, my dear heart. I just _love_ him soooooooo.”

He loiters up to where Sherlock is standing with his eyes cast down. Obviously, he has decided that a struggle will be no use, except to have Jim invite the company to jeer and ridicule him.

Nor will a struggle help Mycroft. Mycroft, who’s pounding the glass again, shouting Sherlock’s name.

“Of course he needs a little bit of direction,” Jim explains, loitering up to Sherlock. “The poor boy imagines himself to be in love… with his _brother_. Eugh, only imagine, _shagging your own brother_.”

Shocked cries of outrage meet this revelation.

“Yeah, it’s frankly disgusting,” comments Jim. “Still, what can one do? The poor little bitch was led astray by his filthy big, big brother. Still, the fairy tale has a happy ending, I suppose, for I saved him from a terrible sin. He doesn’t fully appreciate it yet, he’s such an ungrateful little slut, but I’m sure over time he’ll come to see the error of his ways, and he’ll thank me for saving him. For you know…”

All Mycroft can do is watch as Jim drapes his arms around Sherlock’s figure from behind and tugs on the sash to let the dressing robe fall open. His hand slithers over Sherlock’s waist, down his pelvis and cups the limp penis and testicles; half hidden behind Sherlock’s shackled wrists. Jim smiles and looks straight ahead, locking his gaze into Mycroft’s, boring into him, “…the good thing is, he’s mine now. All mine.”

***


	6. The worst is not

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Desperately, Mycroft prepares the setting for the discussion that will help him reason himself out of the war waged on his soul. After all, his specialty is to assess the situation, any given situation, untangle the knotted mass of motives and passions, and render each invalid and void. His weapon is the mightiest of all, the massive Juggernaut of his brain, and once he launches it onto the field of battle, his enemies can do nothing but throw down their weaponry and flee, lest they be flattened as he rolls along – irrevocably.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid I'm using Shakespeare's King Lear as a treasure trove for chapter titles for this fic. My sincere apologies.

_Sherlock!_

From out of the soaked through bedding Mycroft hauls himself to consciousness, spluttering and gasping for breath. The limp silk rag languishing in his arms clings unpleasantly to his chest – chafing his skin with its wet rub – and the picture of Sherlock clad in precisely this garment, while dragged into a room filled with an audience ready to deride and gloat over him, springs up in Mycroft’s mind. With a snarl he flings the traitorous robe away. It pools onto the floor as if washed up on the seashore, transforming itself into a slimy string of kelp, or the decomposing body of a monstrous squid risen from the deep.

His throat hurts from all the shouting. Shouting his brother’s name over and over again while his fists hammered against the thick slab of the window. Such a hideous dream. What does it signify?  
Nothing, he tells himself. Nothing. _It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing._

He looks at his hands. If only they were dripping with blood right now – Moriarty’s bright red blood. What a tender world that would be. The skin glistens, shiny and wet. Not with blood, though, but his own sweat, wrung out of his pores during his night’s outing to witness his lover’s torment.

_Sherlock. My love._

Sunlight peeks into the room through a slit between the heavy curtains. The world has started on a new day, in blessed obliviousness. Mycroft grinds the heels of his palms into his eyes to attack the pounding headache hiding behind them. The cooling layer of perspiration causes shivers to ripple down his spine. 

***

Half an hour later he’s installed behind his plate in the cosy breakfast room – freshly shaved and showered and suited in a rather dashing ensemble of a charcoal _Prince of Wales_ cashmere, combined with a pearly-grey shirt and crimson tie and pocket-square – perusing the morning papers and sipping his tea like he would on any other day. The dressing robe lies stashed in the main guestroom’s waste bin – Mycroft doesn’t wish to lay eyes on the hideous piece of clothing ever again. Once Sherlock is back Mycroft will buy him a new one, an even finer one. He spotted a beautiful specimen at Liberty last month, cobalt-blue shot silk, just the right colour to kindle the bright flashes of blue and green in Sherlock’s eyes.

As expected, the latest batch of files in his inbox yields nothing. Just more inane faces staring out at him until a mouse click relegates them back into digital space. He knows the exercise is useless, but it is something to do. The alternative would be giving up and accepting the inevitable, a concession that the other party outsmarted and defeated him, and Mycroft doesn’t care to be renowned for acceding to his failures graciously. Not until his own eyes have seen Sherlock’s lifeless body, will he believe his brother might be dead.

“Will you have some more toast, Sir?” Emma, his maid-cum-cook, enquires while refilling his cup. 

Mycroft flicks his eyes up to her, but she doesn’t even bat an eyelid.

“I hope you won’t mind me saying so but you’ve not eaten properly these last few days,” she tells him while picking up the silver toast rack. “Your agenda’s filled to overflowing and you know full well you can’t afford to get sick so you should feed yourself. I’ll make you some more. Or would you rather have an omelette?”

“No, I’ll stick to the toast, please. With your excellent raspberry jam or is that already finished?”

“I’ll see what I can do,” Emma answers and sails out of the room, carefully closing the door behind her.

The moment he hears the click of the lock, he angles his mobile out of his jacket pocket and thumbs the zero.

“Yes.”

“I’ll have a look at the car and the scene where it was discovered.”

The line remains conspicuously quiet without even the sharp intake of breath Mycroft expected to hear after his declaration. His request is a severe breach of the understanding between him and his precious employee. In posing it he has basically expressed his misgivings about both the methods employed and the abilities of the man himself. The order is an insult, a slap in the face of one of the few people working for him whom he truly respects. However, the matter is beyond Mycroft’s control. He _must_ investigate the means employed in Sherlock’s abduction himself. He ought to have done so straightaway. 

Twenty-two seconds of stunned silence have already elapsed and Mycroft is still waiting for a sound to indicate the man is going to answer. At last it comes, a soft susurrus of breath, “Yes.”

“Pick me up at the office at three a.m. I have two hours to spare. Will that be enough?”

“Yes.”

Mycroft ends the call and blocks the time in his agenda, marking it private. When Emma re-enters the room with the toast and a fresh jar of raspberry jam, he’s absorbed in the papers once more. 

“Here you are, Sir.” She deposits the food next to his plate. “It’s the last jar, but I had a look at the peaches yesterday and you’ll have peach jam with your toast tomorrow morning.”

Emma loves to babble but her mouth can be sealed tighter than a miser’s purse. His temporary move to the main guestroom has not been commented upon, the sheets get changed every day, just as if he were lying in his own bed, and the dressing gown will be quietly disposed of. She organises his life at home as efficiently as Anthea does his life at the office. The two women have never met, but communicate by phone and text messaging to ensure the smooth organisation of his hours. Thanks to the information Anthea feeds Emma, the dinner parties Mycroft throws on a regular basis – the festive ones to prepare a deal and the more sober ones to cut it – are always a success. Every taste and dietary restriction catered for, the guests leave the premises, or retire to one of the guestrooms, dazed by the pleasure attack on their palate and the visual and olfactory delights presented on their plates during the course of the evening. 

“Anthea sent me next month’s schedule,” Emma says, lingering near the table. “I saw you’ll be away to a United Nations conference in New York for five days.” Here, she trails of into significant silence. Mycroft lowers his paper.

“How’s your nephew?” he asks.

“Oh, fine,” she counters, all aglow at the question, for her dead sister’s boy, an Edinburgh solicitor doing well for himself, is her pride and joy. “He’s such a proud dad. But his wife is nearly done in. It wasn’t an easy delivery and of course the first is a handful as well. He’s mighty jealous, Mark tells me.”

“It appears you’ve already got your holiday cut out for you, then?”

“Yes, Sir,” Emma smiles.

“I do seem to recall there’s nothing on in the week after my return, is there?” Mycroft continues. “Why don’t you take two weeks? The coming autumn promises to be rather hectic. You’d do well to stack up a little extra energy.”

“Sir? Oh, Mark will be thrilled.”

Happy, she sweeps back to the kitchen to inform her family of her surprise visit.

Mycroft sighs and reaches for the jar of jam. He’s about to ladle some onto his plate when the colour and the viscosity of the substance leap out at him. His fingers are holding a spoon brimming with curdled blood. The spoon drops from his suddenly nerveless hand, landing on the table in a splatter of bright red. Choking, he claws at the napkin resting in his lap, while pushing back his chair with trembling fingers. 

A part of him is aware he’s showing undignified and ridiculous behaviour, clamouring for him to re-install himself in his chair, restore the napkin to his lap and continue his breakfast. Alas, the part beseeching him to flee to the safety of his neat office in Whitehall is equally strong. After a great struggle he drops into his chair again, exhausted, to give himself over to the joyless gluttony of dry toast washed down with great gulps of tea.

***

The car is already waiting for him when he enters the parking garage.

The man with the soft voice throws Mycroft a brief sideways glance as he installs himself in the backseat. One of his technical experts is seated next to the driver. Once the chauffeur is behind the wheel again, Mycroft motions with his umbrella for the parting screen to go up. 

“Peter, screen.” The heavy plate zooms up and slots itself into the upper part of the frame. A soundproofed, tinted-windowed cocoon hides Mycroft from the rest of the world.

“The vehicle first?”

“If it’s not too much trouble.” Mycroft inclines his head. 

They ride in silence. Mycroft gazes out of the window while his employee sits texting. As Mycroft is used to being transported while perched next to a busily texting figure he doesn’t let this bother him. Besides, the man is busy working on his behalf.

The car enters another parking garage and draws to a halt. 

“You’ll want these.” A pair of latex gloves materialises in front of his chest.

“Of course. Thank you,” Mycroft acknowledges the necessity of these rather offensive articles and rests his umbrella on the floor to snap them on. For a moment he marvels at Sherlock’s one time confession that he liked the feel – rubbery, yet dry – against the skin of his hands. Obviously it isn’t the texture of the gloves themselves, but rather the idea of the surroundings where he wears them – crime scenes, laboratories, maybe even in the improvised lab that is 221b’s kitchen. 

The car door swings open and Mycroft steps out to the sight of huge sheets of plastic hanging down from the ceiling. 

“Here.” Drawing one of the sheets aside his employee gestures for him to step into the improvised chamber. 

In the boxed off area the familiar vehicle stands. His imagination had painted the car gutted beyond recognition. _Burnt to a crisp._ In reality it doesn’t look too bad, rather like a half-hearted job. The paint of the hood is gone, as are the windows, but the car might be salvaged if one had a mind to. 

Slowly, Mycroft walks around it. The man Mycroft has labelled ‘Zero’ has planted himself into a corner. The technic makes to join Mycroft and start explaining, but one swift glance from Zero halts him and he slinks off to stand beside Zero with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Mycroft takes a step back and studies the number plate. 

_G.S.M. One Zero._

Game, set, and match, and they’re one up on him. The message suddenly jumps to the fore in his mind. Is this not about Sherlock then, but about Mycroft? Is Sherlock nothing to Moriarty but the perfect vessel to strike out at _him_? 

The sudden idea almost has him gasping. His fingers yearn for the umbrella handle to curl themselves around and to press the smooth wood, hard. The notion hits him as preposterous;Moriarty had been – is – obsessed with Sherlock. Except suppose he had teamed up with someone who was equally frantic to lash out at Mycroft and they were set upon killing two birds with one stone? 

God, the list of people who might bear him a grudge is endless. If he had to draw it up he wouldn’t even know where to start. 

Which is not true, of course. He’s simply never bothered to write it down. After all, some secrets are better left unrecorded but in the great ledger that is the brain of Mycroft Holmes.

To camouflage the deluge of disturbing thoughts hurtling through his mind he temples his fingers in front of his mouth and directs his gaze at the lock of the vehicle boot.

“Open it, please,” he says. “The doors as well.”

The technic dashes forward to execute his wish. When the man has rearranged himself in the corner again, Mycroft bends forward and examines the interior of the car. The upholstery is severely damaged but his eyes spot the bloodstain immediately. Both its position on the back of the seat and the shape suggest it wasn’t caused by a knife wound. That still leaves the possibility of Sherlock having been strangled. Or executed in another place, anywhere. 

Hitching up the legs of his trousers Mycroft lowers himself onto his knees and leans into the car to examine the backs of the front seats for traces of shoe scuffs on the leather.

“This might come in handy, sir.” The technic has popped up beside him and hands him a small silicone air blower with a brush attached to it. 

Half an hour later Mycroft finishes his examination. The only result it has garnered is the fresh realisation that he’s hired the best man in the Kingdom for this job, not counting himself and his brother.

“Thank you,” he says, stripping the gloves and dropping them into the expert’s outstretched hand, before stepping into the car again. “Now to the scene.”

“It’s quite a drive,” Zero says.

Mycroft pulls his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll be a little longer,” he tells Anthea when she answers the call. “Do feel free to take the afternoon off. After all, nothing terribly urgent is going on.”

***

They end up at a deserted patch of land near Dagenham Sunday Market. 

“It was standing here, wasn’t it,” Mycroft asks, pointing at a hardly visible discoloration of the sand. 

“Yes. Tyre tracks, shoe tracks, badly damaged, of course. It’s all in the report.”

“Yes, I read.” Mycroft studies the ground, comparing what his eyes are seeing to the findings in the report drawn up for him, and discovering no discrepancies. This should have been reassuring. It makes him want to cry with despair.

“Fine,” he says. “We’re done here, I think.”

Back in the car he feels Zero’s gaze flick over to him. Steeling himself, Mycroft drags up a smile to his face.

“Do you remember the man you apprehended in Torquay last February?”

“James Moriarty, yes.”

“Find him for me.”

***

Back home he walks straight to his study. The room feels stuffy and hot and he throws open the windows, letting his eyelids fall closed to better concentrate on absorbing the sumptuous smell of the roses climbing the walls. For a moment he’s transported back to the time when he was nine years old, sitting with a book on the bench in Mummy’s rose garden while Sherlock was chasing the droning bees buzzing from one rose to the next, forever escaping the small grasping hands that tried to catch them. Sherlock’s curls bounce on his head while he runs as fast as his short legs allow him, and then they take on a more erratic, less regular rhythm and the deep growl of his voice fills Mycroft’s ears, ‘Harder. Oh god yes, Mycroft, like that. Yes.’

“I love you,” he kept whispering inside his head, his eyes roving over the dancing locks swirling in front of his eyes as he bent over his brother’s back. “I love you so.” 

Earlier that morning he’d driven over to collect Sherlock from the rehab clinic where he’d spent six weeks sorting himself out. Once they were safely tucked behind the tinted windows of the car, they’d embraced fiercely. 

“Well done, Sherlock,” he’d said once he felt he could let go of his brother again. “I’m proud of you. Just, one warning, I don’t want to have to experience something like this ever again.”

Sherlock’s verdigris gaze had locked into his.

“You left me, Mycroft. What did you expect me to do?” His voice had been almost harsh then.

“I didn’t leave you. I wouldn’t.” He hadn’t been able to say ‘couldn’t’, though that was the truth.

Later he’d reconsidered. Maybe Sherlock had spoken the truth after all. At twenty-three years of age he’d been dissatisfied with his postdoc research job at university, complaining bitterly about the infinite stupidity of the students and the other staff. Mycroft ignored the rants, too busy at the time with keeping his cool at Whitehall. Afterwards – once Sherlock was locked away behind the huge whitewashed walls and stout doors of the clinic – he berated himself for never having noticed the cocaine addiction Sherlock had begun to nourish. Sherlock confessed that it started with an experimental sniff, induced by a sense of boredom rather than an actual interest in recreational drug use. However, he was never one for doing things by half, and soon he deteriorated to intravenous injection of the vile stuff.

Mycroft, meanwhile, was engaged in one of the crucial stages of his career. He was out of the country half the time on various delicate diplomatic missions. Simultaneously, he had to sort his way through three scandals that had come to light; each of them a dicey situation with the potential to put the head on the block of a number of people whose head it was in Mycroft’s – and thus the blissfully unaware general public’s – interest to remain firmly attached to the rest of their bodies.

The toughest and most distasteful affair to sort out was the dismantling of a well-organised gang in the army. Pursuing some vague reports Mycroft himself dug this ring of crime out of the many-layered organisation wherein it had managed to bury itself deeply. One general, a brigadier, two colonels and a dozen men of a less distinctive rank used the time and means deployed to them by the British people to exploit a great number of gambling dens, a smuggling ring and an escort service, using blackmail to force soldiers of a lesser rank to cater to the tastes of their seniors.

The ringleader was a colonel named Sebastian Moran. Deriving from a family of wealthy Manchester industrialists, he’d enjoyed a dazzling army career, so Mycroft confronted a man not much his senior in age. During their interviews Moran kept stroking his moustache while his gaze remained fastened securely to the surface of the table separating them. Yet, Mycroft was unable to shake the feeling he was being closely observed the whole time the conversation lasted. At the end of each session, after the door to the interview room fell closed behind his back, he hurried to a toilet to wash his hands, as if Moran’s presence had contaminated him with a deadly virus. 

Stripped of their insignia, dismissed from the ranks, the men served their – too brief – time in prison. After their release Mycroft ordered close surveillance for all of them. Moran ensconced himself on his estate in the Lake District with a hoard of spongers that changed on a semi-regular basis. According to the reports, he spent his time fly-fishing and taking target practice in the shooting range he’d had installed on his grounds. Briefly, Mycroft toyed with the idea of ordering the range to be razed to the ground, but in the end decided the man had been punished enough. With a quiet satisfaction Mycroft contemplated the permanent state of excruciating ennui Moran must endure; a man cut out for activity, banished to a life of idleness.

Nothing too untoward came to light during the ensuing years, and after some time Mycroft ordered a relaxation of the surveillance on the men. Contrary to Sherlock’s claims, even Mycroft’s resources weren’t indefinite, and he had to make budgeting choices as well as anyone else in the Kingdom.

Once Moran and his associates were safely stashed away in prison, Mycroft deemed that he’d earned himself the right to abscond for a little holiday. He decided to pay Sherlock a surprise visit, he hadn’t seen him for three months – for far too long –, and take him on a jaunt to the Welsh coast for the weekend. In Cambridge he rang the bell to announce his presence and inserted the key into the lock of Sherlock’s scruffy front door only to find his brother passed out on the floor of his tiny living room.

Until the present he’d always thought that was the worst moment of his life.

With one sweep of his eyes Mycroft took in the whole scene. His mind leapt back to their last encounter – swift, needy, frantic. He had relished in the beauty of Sherlock’s marble chest, set off against the night blue colour of his shirt as he lay spread out beneath Mycroft, rolling up his hips. Now Mycroft understood why Sherlock hadn’t taken the shirt off, even afterwards, during the short slumber Mycroft had conceded to before his return to London.

Sherlock’s ribcage rose and fell beneath his – buttoned – shirt. His gaze settled onto Mycroft, then cut straight through him, as sharp as a hacked off shard of ice. 

“Get up,” Mycroft choked. “Get up now.”

Groaning, Sherlock leveraged himself against the sofa into a more or less sitting position. Meanwhile, Mycroft strode off to the small attached bedroom and started tugging clothes out of the wardrobe, shirts, jeans, casual jackets and underwear, throwing everything onto the bed. 

Sherlock had dragged himself up off the floor and was now hanging against the doorpost.

“What are you doing?”

Mycroft ignored the question for one of his own. “Where is your suitcase?”

“Unff. Beneath the bed. Mycroft?”

“Sherlock, I want you to listen to me very carefully, for I’m not going to repeat myself. You’ll have six weeks to rid yourself of your habit. I’ll visit you as often as I can. Unless you’re clean at the end of that period and prepared to swear you’ll never touch any drug in the future, I’ll walk out on you and leave you to your own resources, and I will never lay eyes on you again.”

“You drink, Mycroft,” Sherlock protested. “Quite a lot, actually. Alcohol is one of the most…” With a snarl Mycroft whipped around and held up his finger under Sherlock’s nose.

“Don’t,” he warned. “Don’t you dare.”

Opening his eyes wide Sherlock attempted to bore his gaze into Mycroft’s but had to avert his eyes. Mycroft drew a shuddering breath, deep into his lungs. “Put on your shoes,” he said, stashing the clothes into the suitcase.

The loud chop of the blades of a helicopter overhead hauls Mycroft back to his present misery. He turns away from the window and settles himself at his desk to start drawing up a list of all the people and organisations he knows apart from Moriarty and small fry like Colonel Sebastian Moran that might be interested in targeting either him or Sherlock.

With any luck, some name will jump out at him while he writes it down and hand him something, _anything_ to start working on.

***

Nothing happens during the next fortnight. No sign or word of Sherlock. The earth has opened up and grabbed him whole, snapping its maws shut after swallowing him, leaving no trace. No sign or word of Moriarty, either. Together, they’ve vanished, like a pair of lovers eloping across the border into another realm. 

One week after the funeral Mycroft is standing in front of the huge window again, his feet stuck in the ground, unable to move. The huge chamber is almost dark, its sole illumination deriving from the fire that roars in the hearth.

The flickering flames reveal the pair on the rug in front of the hearth. Clad in a robe Mycroft recognises as Sherlock’s dressing gown – the one he has recently cast away – Moriarty stands towering over the man who sits kneeling in front of him, hands bound by a pair of ermine-lined handcuffs. With languid fingers Moriarty drags his limp penis over the high forehead, the carved cheekbones, and down the long nose of Sherlock’s face.

“Here, gorgeous,” he giggles in that sickening, high, inane voice. “Oh my, don’t you look delicious? I could have you for breakfast any day. But first you’ll be having me.”

Sherlock opens his lips obediently and Mycroft tries to screw his eyes shut so he won’t have to witness the sight of Sherlock’s mouth making love to the consulting criminal’s _cock_. To his dismay, Mycroft finds his eyelids have been pulled back and are sewn to the skin beneath his eyebrows, impeding every movement; he can’t so much as blink. Invisible hands have grabbed him from behind, forcing him to stare straight ahead, and when he slants his gaze, the floor of the room tilts so the harrowing scene is still right in front of his eyes.  
Almost weeping with nausea and impotent rage Mycroft balls his fists. Forced to look on, powerless.

His brother hollows his cheeks, gazing up with huge adoring eyes, all his attention devoted to pleasuring the man standing before him. 

“Ooooh, you’re such a beautiful animal,” Moriarty purrs, fisting his hands into Sherlock’s hair and pistoning his member into the offered orifice with quick little bunny motions. He giggles again. “Don’t you want to say hi to big brother? He’s watching us, you know.”

Careful not to let go of Moriarty’s penis Sherlock shakes his head.

“You can speak if you want to,” Moriarty tells him, pulling his ruddy member from between Sherlock’s lips with a plopping sound.

“I don’t want to see him,” whines Sherlock. “Please, Jim.” His tongue dashes out to swipe his lips, rendering them glistening and wet, his gaze flicking down to the other man’s groin.

“Oh, all right, if you insist,” Moriarty sighs in a put-upon manner and plunges back in. Sherlock ardently devotes himself to his self-imposed task. High above his bobbing head Moriarty swivels his eyes in Mycroft’s direction. With a horrible leer he digs his hands even deeper into the eddying mass of black curls.

He winks.

His own screams wake Mycroft, but his ordeal isn’t over yet. Accompanying him as he regains consciousness is the green-eyed monster. High-backed it raises itself onto its hind legs and shakes itself loose, rustling the steely-stiff hackles of its hide, baring its dripping fangs. Without warning it attacks, slashing at Mycroft with its sharp claws, intent on tearing him apart.

Desperately, Mycroft prepares the setting for the discussion that will help him reason himself out of the war waged on his soul. After all, his specialty is to assess the situation, any given situation, untangle the knotted mass of motives and passions, and render each invalid and void. His weapon is the mightiest of all, the massive Juggernaut of his brain, and once he launches it onto the field of battle, his enemies can do nothing but throw down their weaponry and flee, lest they be flattened as he rolls along – irrevocably.

Those words he spoke at the palace were true. Sherlock did indeed not know about sex. Oh, he knew about _sex with Mycroft_ , and Mycroft had taken pride in being a loving and able teacher. After that first time, when Sherlock had made his surprising move, Mycroft had devoted himself to the veneration of his brother’s body, deriving his pleasure from whipping up Sherlock’s, finding his satisfaction in fulfilling his sibling’s every demand.

Nonetheless, he never let himself forget that Sherlock had been a virgin when he sought out Mycroft in his bed. The night of their second encounter Sherlock confessed he hadn’t so much as kissed anyone else until he fastened his lips on Mycroft’s, stating he’d already known at an early age he’d have Mycroft, or no one. 

A highly gratifying declaration, certainly, but a potentially dangerous one as well. Sherlock’s early devotion saddled Mycroft with the unenviable assignment to keep reinventing himself into a fascinating lover. No easy feat, especially when taking into account Sherlock’s tendency to lapse into a state of profound ennui at a lack of external stimulation. 

Most encumbering, however, was Mycroft’s captivation with his brother. At first – after he’d overcome his initial qualms – he’d delighted in the changed relationship, enjoying to the fullest the fruits of the secret garden of delights they’d landscaped for themselves. Before long, however, he started to worry, constantly. His fears didn’t concern themselves so much with exposure as with the lessening of his brother’s interest in him. 

The first time the beast of jealousy reared its ugly head Mycroft had been twenty-eight years old. That Christmas an additional member had been attached to the usual party of family and friends. During the Christmas dinner Mycroft had watched out of the corner of his eye how Sherlock was engaged in an animated conversation with his right-hand table partner, a young MIT graduate who had been invited to spend the holidays in England at the behest of their cousin Catherine.

That night Mycroft bade Sherlock a frosty reception, despite his endeavours to exude his usual warmth in receiving his brother. Alas, Sherlock was too good an observer not to notice something was amiss.

“What’s the matter with you?” he asked, raising himself on an elbow to stare down at Mycroft in the golden light of the night lamp.

“Nothing,” denied Mycroft. “I’m tired and the food was too rich, that’s all. Let’s go to sleep, tomorrow will be another tiring day.” He extended his arm to draw Sherlock’s head down to his breast.

“I know tomorrow will be just as suffocatingly dull as today, but that’s not what’s bothering you,” Sherlock mused. “You were in your element, yapping away at all those stuffy old bores…” His voice trailed off while his fingers played idly with the auburn curls on Mycroft’s chest. “Good god,” he exclaimed suddenly, sitting bolt upright, “you’re jealous! Mycroft, really.” 

He goggled at Mycroft, his eyebrows twirling through a cheeky set of dance steps of their own.

Denial was useless. Refusing to look at his brother, Mycroft gritted out, “You hung on to your table partner’s every word. Miss Bennett’s conversation must have been riveting.”

“And what if I told you I found it to be so, indeed. Her research into the stroboscopic effects of light could open up a whole new field in forensics.”

“Undoubtedly,” assented Mycroft. His lips twitched. Sherlock stared back at him.

“Jealousy is one of the more pedestrian vices, wouldn’t you say?” he forwarded.

“I couldn’t agree with you more,” Mycroft answered in a pleasant tone. “Be a good boy and lay off now.”

“Still, I suppose I ought to be flattered.” A swift glance was shot in Mycroft’s direction.

“Don’t be,” grunted Mycroft. “Stop it, Sherlock. I’m warning you.”

Sherlock shifted, defiance and uneasiness making his shoulder blades stand out sharp against the smooth white plane of his back. “Are you threatening me?” he demanded, tucking his chin up in the air. 

His stubbornness helped Mycroft regain his composure. His thumb and forefinger braceleted his brother’s slender wrist. “Certainly not,” he said, “after all, threats are nothing if not mundane. They’re always issued by the weak, I find.”

At his words Sherlock’s eyelids fluttered shut. “Of course,” he murmured. “You know I didn’t mean it, Mycroft.”

“All right.” Cupping his brother’s chin Mycroft sealed their fresh understanding with a chaste kiss on Sherlock’s chastened lips. 

Since that night, every now and then Sherlock initiated some skirmishes near the edge of the morass of jaundiced bile. Mycroft recognised these for the friskiness of a tiger cub, fascinated by the sweep of its mother’s tail at its raillery, and a growl was enough to make his younger brother back off again, going out of his way to please his elder sibling. Mycroft lowered his raised paw and scratched his playful darling behind his ears. 

That was all fine and well, but didn’t prevent the bouts of acute doubt Mycroft suffered from on a regular basis. What if Sherlock decided one day Mycroft and his teachings weren’t enough, what if he wanted to _experiment_? At university and during his first year as a minor official in the British government Mycroft had devoted a considerable part of his time to discovering his own sexuality. In the end he concluded his tastes in the bedroom would probably be considered rather dull by some, but as he wasn’t interested in participating in any activities with these people, he couldn’t care less. First and foremost, he wanted his partner to feel revered and appreciated, and he’d rather accomplish the feat by kissing every inch of skin disclosed for his benefit than trashing it with a riding crop.

What if his unwillingness to do so deprived Sherlock of genuine gratification? Their launching their liaison so early in Sherlock’s life meant Sherlock had been denied the experiences Mycroft had once freely indulged in. True, he appeared to be perfectly content, as he was the one who sought out Mycroft nine times out of ten, but then Mycroft went to great lengths to rein in his desire to contact Sherlock. Had Mycroft counted too much on Sherlock’s disdain for the world at large to keep him safely at his side? Ought he not to have read more into Sherlock’s fascination with Miss Adler?

Initially, while playing the great game, Sherlock had openly expressed his admiration for Moriarty’s genius 

“I will outsmart him, of course,” he’d boasted, “but he really is an intriguing creature. I wouldn’t object if that dimwit of an Anderson called him a psychopath, for I’ve never met a more perfect representative of the species. And he’s proud of it.” 

Later, he’d revised his initial assertions and called Moriarty a despicable criminal that ought to be stopped. A very crafty criminal, admittedly, but nothing more than a crook at the end of the day. 

Can it be – does Mycroft’s hideous dream reveal Sherlock’s apparent reconsideration to be nothing but playacting on Sherlock’s part? Have the consulting detective and the consulting criminal struck a deal to pull wool over the eyes of the minor British government official? Did they go to Gretna Green together and emerge to reign over an imperium of vice and crime the world has never before been subjected to, engaging in a little power play in the bedroom every once in a while to relieve the tediousness of it all? Had Moriarty sat awaiting Sherlock’s embrace in the backseat behind the tinted windows of that Bentley in Little Britain? The same fierce embrace Sherlock had shared with Mycroft outside the clinic all those years ago?

_The car slides onto the street and rolls away. The black plastic covering the back window is ripped away to reveal Moriarty sucking on the bounty of Sherlock’s lower lip, then diving straight in to reap his reward for helping Sherlock escape from the clinging bonds of Mycroft’s love._

Shuddering, Mycroft throws aside the duvet, and starts pulling off his sweat-soaked pyjamas. He is not of the school that believes dreams disclose any actual happenings in the world at large. All the dream reveals is the capacity of his mind to literally dream up the most ludicrous nonsense. Sobering cool night air envelopes his naked limbs as Mycroft forbids himself to consider the notion - even for one short half-second - of Sherlock and Moriarty striking up a life together.

The sound of Sherlock’s eagerly breathing voice floats through the room, his plea-for-pleasure voice, pitched to perfection for Mycroft’s perusal solely.

_“Please, Jim.”_

***


	7. O, that way madness lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rolling his eyes Mycroft pushes himself out of his chair to have a look. Nearing the window he notices a large object appears to be standing in front of it, the form blends in with the darkness and yet its shape is vaguely familiar. If Mycroft didn’t know any better he’d say it was a person, peering intently into the room. The idea is preposterous, of course. Mycroft’s garden is one of the most closely guarded grounds in England; the chances of anyone sneaking in are less than nil.

“Pick me up in half an hour, will you?” Mycroft tells his chauffeur once he’s stepped out of the car and held up his hand to check whether the slight drizzle necessitating him to put up his umbrella earlier that day has already abated. To his relief, he finds it has.

“Yes, sir,” James answers and closes the door. James is a good and obedient fellow. Once upon a time Mycroft was vaguely pleased with the fact he employed a chauffeur called James, but lately he has a sour taste in his mouth whenever he has to pronounce the name. Admittedly, the man himself can’t be blamed. And Mycroft can hardly expect the man to change his given name. Instead, he straightens his spine and turns towards the cemetery gates. 

If anyone would ask him why he is here he wouldn’t know what to answer. However, people don’t usually ask for the motivation behind his wishes – they’re more likely to hurry off and _obey_ – so he has elected not to worry unduly much over his decision to pay a visit to a headstone with his brother’s name, erected over a wooden coffin filled with thirty-one packets of printing paper. 

After looking left and right he strides onto the cemetery grounds. The grave is in one of the plots that were cleared some months ago, so there aren’t that many graves in this part of the graveyard. His roaming eyes find the newl, gleaming, black marble headstone quickly, some faded flowers wilting at the base, Molly’s work, probably. With stiff legs he walks up and halts in front of the stone. Wrangling off his glove he rests his bare hand on top of it in a search for comfort that must remain vain.

A month has passed since Sherlock disappeared – since Mycroft saw him racing around the corner with a huge grin and sparkling eyes and seat himself into the black Bentley, the wrong Bentley – and Mycroft is none the wiser as to what happened to have their plan fail so spectacularly. 

Assuming at least it was _their_ plan all along and Mycroft hadn’t been duped into participating into a wholly different game with a differently calculated outcome. 

But, _no_! He’s travelled that road the past few weeks and he flat-out refuses to wander down it any further. His dear little brother, Mycroft’s own _darling_ hasn’t betrayed him, turned his back on him all of a sudden and run off with Moriarty. The idea is inconceivable and he ought to have quelled it the moment it popped up in his brain. Right along with the thought that Sherlock might, indeed, be dead. 

What kind of an elder sibling, what kind of a lover is he to spend his days tearing his hair out of his head, his clothes from his back, wrenching his hands and moaning, with tears running down his face in gaudy pre-Raphaelite theatrics of heart-breaking grief? He should be out there hunting Moriarty down, finding Sherlock. Except, he’s already doing that, he’s sent his best man after him, but so far nothing has come up.

The sitting around and waiting, unable to do anything, it’s… _excruciating_ , really.

So, basically, this is what Mycroft has got to remind him of Sherlock’s existence: a photo album filled with family photos up to the time Mycroft went off to university, the _Monti Madonie_ photograph locked away in his safe, the teacups hidden in a cupboard in a room Mycroft won’t enter, a flat in Baker Street and this headstone. Briefly, he’s contemplated paying John a surprise visit, just for the chance to have a look around the flat, but in the end he’s decided against it. The man’s grief is too fresh, better let him get his bearings again first. 

“Where are you, Sherlock?” he murmurs, relieved the stone doesn’t start talking back to him. It’s just standing there, black and conspicuously new, and Mycroft is about to turn away and head up to the gate to await James’ return with the car, when the sound of still far-away voices makes him freeze.

He’d recognise those voices anywhere. He doesn’t want their owners to discover him. Not here, not now. 

Wildly, he looks around him and his gaze falls on a big cedar tree a couple of dozen yards away from the grave. The next moment he’s partaking in a little legwork and ends up stashed safely behind the tree – hand to his panting side – by the time Mrs Hudson and John materialise on the path up to the grave.

Shock strikes out and punches Mycroft full in the gut when he dashes a proper look at his brother’s landlady and best friend. God, he’d counted on them being hit hard by Sherlock’s faked death, he hadn’t expected them to start shouting ‘Hallelujah!’ and break out into whooping noises of joy, but he hadn’t reckoned on their grief being this deep.

Mrs Hudson’s hair is in disarray and she’s wearing a dress that would have elicited such a scathing comment from Sherlock that she would have flurried down the stairs instantly, to bin it and exchange it for one of her beloved boy’s favourites. 

The sight of John is even worse. Over the course of a mere thirty days the dapper army doctor, who once braved Mycroft in a deserted parking garage without so much as batting an eyelid, has been reduced to a ghost of his former self. His leg is obviously hurting a lot, and Mycroft allows for another week, at the most, before John will have to resort to his cane again. 

They make straight for the grave, clearly acquainted with its exact position, heads close together. 

“No!” Mycroft hears John grit his teeth in barely suppressed impatience as they pass close by Mycroft’s tree. “Mrs Hudson, stop it, please. I can’t go back to the flat right now; you’ve got to respect that.”

“I do, John, of course I do. Except, I miss you. Sherlock’s gone and now you as well and the house is so empty. I’m an old woman, John. I can do with the company, you know?”

All she gets for an answer is a stiffening of John’s shoulders. Beneath his tree Mycroft stands nailed to the ground. The plan was for John to continue his residence at 221b, so Sherlock could slot in without difficulty after his miraculous return from the realm of the death. 

John’s decision for a change of venue means Mrs Hudson might start looking for a new tenant. She is, after all, not that young anymore. Sherlock’s proximity could hardly have added to her general sense of safety, but Mycroft has seen enough to grasp that she must miss the daily fussing over the youngest of 221b’s occupants, all the while declaring loudly she most decidedly isn’t his housekeeper.

“I'm angry,” John says.

Mrs Hudson shushes him. “It's okay, John. There's nothing unusual in that, that's the way he made everyone feel. All the marks on my table and the noise. Firing guns off at one in the morning.”

She most decidedly grieves for Sherlock, grieves for the loss of him and the loss of John. Another month and she will start a search for new lodgers, new people to bustle around and spoil and complain about. The realisation has Mycroft gripping the Malacca cane of his umbrella handle so tightly that the ribbons press the bone through the flesh of his palm. Sherlock will come back and find his home gone. Another person will occupy the leather chair next to the mantelpiece, stretch out on the sofa and draw the fleur-de-lys cushion beneath his head. 

_Dear god, no!_

No matter how, Mycroft _must_ prevent this from happening. Now, or, even if… But no, Sherlock is alive. He _must_ be. Mycroft _needs_ him to be alive.

When Mycroft is back behind the cedar tree again Mrs Hudson has wandered away and John is left alone in front of the stone, addressing it. Mycroft pricks up his ears.

“…you were the best man and the most human... human being that I have ever known, and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie. And so... there.” John’s voice breaks, but he plods on, brandishing his sword with the desperate bravery of the soldier hunched over the slain body of his mate.

 _Sherlock, you… The man is wrecked. Your friend..._

Mycroft swallows. He had known it would be bad, had apologised to John when he sent him off, back to St Bart’s, so Sherlock could say his goodbyes, but the depth of John’s sorrow is overwhelming.

_Do you hear that, Sherlock? What penance did you have in mind to atone for the distress you’ve caused your friend?_

_“Don’t be boring, Mycroft. He can handle it, clouds and silver linings and so forth. He’s faced worse.”_

His brother is standing next to him, gazing out serenely at the view of John fighting his tears in front of the grave.

“I was so alone and I owe you so much. Please, there's just one more thing. One more thing. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that, just for me? Just stop it, stop this...”

_“You see?”_

Sherlock shoots Mycroft a swift glance of triumph before turning to stare at John some more. All Mycroft can do is gape at his brother. Sherlock’s scarf sits tucked high around his throat against the damp wind.

_“He doesn’t appear to bear it well, I’ll admit that. Oh well…”_

Shrugging his shoulders Sherlock swings round and sends his sharp gaze travelling up and down Mycroft’s figure. 

_“Actually, you look a bit qualmish yourself. Are you_ dieting _? I never mean it, you know? Just riling you up. You always snap, which is a bit of a thrill.”_ Sherlock chuckles, the sound a ripple from deep inside his throat.

“Sherlock.” Good God, he’s going mad. Here he is, the man who secretly prided himself on sporting one of the coolest heads in England, in the world, talking to the apparition of his little brother.

 _“Not just your brother, you dolt. At least I _do_ hope you agree with me we share a bit more than just sibling love.”_ Now Sherlock sounds petulant. His eyebrows have risen to imperious heights, glaring out from behind the heavy curtain of curls. 

“Of course,” Mycroft stammers. “Of course we do, darling. Oh god, my own precious darling. Sherlock, please… now you’re here, tell me. Where can I find you? What happened? How…”

Shaking, Mycroft extends his hand towards Sherlock’s face, yearning for the touch, but Sherlock raises his arm in warning. Dangling from his hand is an IV drip line, the needle stuck deep into one of the veins.

 _“Don’t! There’s nothing, you know that.”_

“Christ, yes, but Sherlock… what is that, where are you?”

_“Haven’t the faintest. Do keep up, Mycroft. If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing here, now would I? It’s dark and dank, that’s all I can tell you. You’ve got to find me, and I’d appreciate it if you’d put in more of a bloody effort. Chop-chop.”_

“Sherlock, I…” To Mycroft’s dismay Sherlock clutches the lapels of his coat tightly, pressing his fist close against his chest, and starts walking away. “Oh, stay, please stay.”

 _“I can’t, Mycroft.”_ And he’s gone.

“Sherlock!”

The sound of his brother’s name wrings itself from Mycroft’s throat in a cry that is barely human. He looks around him wildly, but the only life his eyes detect is the hunched form of John Watson, walking away with a painfully stiff leg.

“Oh, Sherlock.”

Panting, Mycroft collapses against the tree. The sense of failure, the hideous certainty he’s failing his brother so badly causes a gulf of bilious self-loathing to crest in his stomach. But even that sensation feels like an easy way out compared to what Sherlock is possibly enduring now. What does that drip line portend? Is Sherlock badly hurt, or are they feeding him drugs? He sounded just like his usual self, not like he was under duress or…

Stop it, he tells himself. This doesn’t inform you of anything. He wasn’t _here_ , he _isn’t_ here. He was nothing but your imagination, whipped up to a fever.

Breathing slowly, concentrating on pulling the air deep into his lungs and letting it flow out again in a continuous puff of breath, he brings his hands up to his face and brushes his palms down from his forehead, over his eyes, down his cheeks and then guiding them along the front of his coat. The ludicrous movements do indeed make him feel slightly better until he’s certain he’s ready to face the world once more with his usual aplomb.

First, he must find Sherlock, but he can’t do any more than he is doing already.

Secondly, he must ensure 221b Baker Street is still intact once Sherlock returns. John’s abandonment of the place amazes him, the idea of John not wishing to continue his residence there hadn’t even crossed his mind, nor Sherlock’s. However, they should have realised that the unassuming army doctor’s capacity to surprise them both is virtually endless. 

The extra workload this will bring forth is highly unwelcome. On the other hand, it will give him something tangible to do for Sherlock’s benefit. The thought revives him enough to enable him to pull his phone from his pocket and call his faithful assistant.

“Anthea, I wish to see my solicitor at the office in one hour. And make an appointment with John Watson, will you? In about five days, see where you can fit him in. Excellent.”

***

“John, how good of you to come.”

The moment the doctor limps into the room Mycroft pushes himself away from the desk, walking around it and halting in front of his guest. His right hand might be extended or just resting at his side. John looks at the hand first and then up into Mycroft’s face, not extending his own hand.

No friendly handshake then.

“Would you like anything to drink?” Mycroft asks in a pleasant tone. 

John just glares at him. “What do you want to speak to me for?” 

“Anthea, we’ll both have tea, please,” signals Mycroft. Anthea nods and closes the door.

“Could you just bloody cut the appearances! We both know the only reason I’m here is because some of those body builder thugs you employ manhandled me into a car. I don’t want to have anything to do with you.” John’s eyes are blazing with hatred and frustration while he stands shouting at Mycroft, his angry face at odds with the homely cable-knit jumper he’s wearing.

Ignoring the outburst, Mycroft walks over to the Chesterfield and gestures for John to seat himself in the chair on the other side of the mantelpiece. John doesn’t budge and remains in his spot in the middle of the room. 

Mycroft sighs deeply.

“Look, John,” he begins. “I understand you’re angry with me. Both your body language and the way you address me have made that abundantly clear. However, I’d be indebted to you if you could do away with the hostilities while we’re in the same room. Your insistence on displaying the kind of childish behaviour I had over the years come to condone in Sherlock is rather tiresome.”

“You have no right to speak to me like that. You of all people…”

In his anger John’s leg nearly buckles under him.

“Yes, John. I’m perfectly aware of your thoughts about my role in Sherlock’s decision to end his life. Come now, don’t be so stubborn and sit down. Your leg is hurting you, we’ve got things to discuss and I’m not going to conduct a conversation with a man who might crash down to the floor any minute. We both know you can do better.”

There is a slight knock on the door and Anthea enters with a tray with a tray of digestives and two mugs of tea, PG-tips labels fluttering merrily near the rims of the mugs. Upon noticing John still standing in the middle of the room, she frowns, lips drooping in a pretty display of female disgruntlement.

“Why are you still standing, John?” she asks with just the right hint of exasperation in her voice. “Your leg is obviously not up to standards right now. You should relax a bit.”

_Good Anthea._

As the advice is being dealt by a pretty woman – a _very_ pretty woman – John’s own nature, chauvinist British male that he is, coerces him into actually hobbling over to the chair and lowering himself into it. Pain momentarily replaces the scowl as he stretches out his leg in front of him.

“There,” Anthea smiles at him. With a flourish she removes the teabags from the mugs. “Milk and sugar have already been added,” she informs him.

“How…” John begins, but she just looks at him, the right side of her mouth quirking in amusement, and he shrugs and reaches for the mug to take a tentative sip. 

“It’s perfect,” he announces.

“Thank you, Anthea,” Mycroft flashes her a glance of gratitude. That morning she’d looked a bit apprehensive when he sent her in search of the nearest Tesco to buy the PG-tips and digestives, instruments that will hopefully enable him to turn his mission into a success. She replies with a demure, swift nod and retreats to her anteroom.

Briefly, Mycroft considers offering John a biscuit but decides John would read it as baiting, so he foregoes the suggestion. Instead, he temples his fingers in front of his mouth, assuming the gesture must be instantly recognisable to John. 

“Let’s skip the introductory chitchat, shall we?” he forwards his opening move. “You’ve already told me you aren’t here of your own free will, so it’s no use exchanging pleasantries.”

Weary eyes stare at him over the rim of the cup. How John can stand the scent of the inferior, indifferently packed tea will always be one of the man’s biggest mysteries to Mycroft. Thank God Anthea placed his cup not too near the table’s edge. If he makes an effort he can pretend the vile smell isn’t poisoning the air in the room. 

Wrinkling his nose, he says, “I invited you here to discuss the matter of Sherlock’s will.”

John’s eyes pop wide open.

“Sherlock’s will?” he growls. “Why do you want to discuss Sherlock’s will with me?”

“Why?” Mycroft raises his eyebrows. “Why do you think, John? Because you’re my brother’s main heir, of course.”

“What?” Now John splutters on his tea, banging the cup down on the table top.

“You’re Sherlock’s main heir,” Mycroft repeats a little louder. “His whole life my brother has shown a regrettable want of interest in everything to do with money. A rather lackadaisical stance in my opinion, seeing as he didn’t have to worry about the stuff for one day of his life.”

On the other side of the table John flexes his hands. 

“However,” Mycroft continues in a pleasant tone. “My brother’s personality is best not discussed between the two of us, seeing as we hold a different view of the admirableness of most of his traits. Suffice it to say some time ago he asked me to ensure his assets would be handed on to you, should some inadvertent tragedy befall him. Naturally, I advised him against this. However, all the money not tied up in family trust funds was his to bestow as he wished, so I could do nothing but have our solicitor draw up the will. Under its clauses and conditions you are now the owner of a one million four hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred sixty six pounds and seventy-six pence. That’s _after_ the deduction of inheritance tax.”

For the sake of his _Qom_ rug Mycroft is glad John’s cup is already safely perched on top of the table. The good doctor is speechless, his left hand shaking uncontrollably.

“Jesus, _bloody hell_ …” With the help of his right arm John attempts to push himself into a more upright position. “The only reason we met, the only reason we ended up living together at Baker Street is because he needed a flatmate to help pay the rent. And now you tell me…”

Mycroft pretends to study his nails. 

“That was a ruse, obviously,” he comments. “How does one put things delicately where my younger sibling is – was – concerned? Both the previous flats and the previous flatmates had proven themselves to be a bit of a… ah… disappointment.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” John says.

“Quite,” Mycroft murmurs.

“I don’t want it,” John ejects next. “I don’t want his _fucking_ money. Bloody wanker. He jumped, right in front of my eyes, he jumped and now he is going to make up for it by leaving me his cash, oh, for all the nasty…” Groaning, he clasps his hands in front of his eyes and bends forward, slowly rocking back and forth. “He jumped off that bloody roof, leaving me behind to deal with this whole crap. He took the easy way out… the coward, the _fucking coward_. I don’t want his money… Jesus.”

“John,” Mycroft admonishes him. “Pack yourself together, John.”

“Oh yes, the stiff upper lip. That’s going to help. Especially when you’re nothing but a machine to begin with! No conscience troubling you at night, Mycroft? Sleeping as sound as a baby?”

“Quite,” Mycroft murmurs again. The discussion is veering out of Mycroft’s control, turning into a treacherous patch of quicksand as they speak. Arms flapping wildly, Mycroft flails around, desperate for solid ground to draw himself onto, and gain the upper hand once again. As ever, the good doctor’s reaction turns out to be contrary to his expectations. 

The will does indeed exist, drawn up at Mycroft’s behest, for he wasn’t swerving too far from the truth when he informed John of Sherlock’s superciliousness with regard to money. 

This morning at half past eleven, when Mycroft last checked, the sum of John’s various bank accounts totalled three thousand eight hundred twenty nine pounds and forty-four pence.  
With this knowledge in mind Mycroft had assumed John would be relieved to find himself the unexpected owner of a comfortable amount of the stuff that made life so much easier in so many ways. He had counted on John being overwhelmed at first, then quickly regaining his senses, recognising how the money resolved some of his more urgent problems and allowed him to resume his life at Baker Street again. 

The rent Mrs Hudson asked for the flat was more than reasonable, especially considering its location, but still quite steep, and certainly not affordable to a doctor subsisting on random locum work. Mrs Hudson needed the income herself, Mr Hudson having been a budgetary hazard even she – one of the thriftiest housewives living in England – couldn’t economise against. 

Thus, thanks to Sherlock’s will Mycroft had looked forward to killing several birds with one stone. John would be able to afford his continuing residency at Baker Street, Mrs Hudson wouldn’t have to conduct a search for new tenants and they would both be ready to receive their friend, once he made his unexpected reappearance into the land of the living. 

“Tell me,” Mycroft says. “What induces you to desist from accepting my younger sibling’s money? You do realise that in doing so you’re defying his last wish.”

“I’m not, he… Jesus, Mycroft, can’t you understand? He left me… and… I can’t. For God’s sake, how much did you say it was?” He quickly licks his lips, eyes darting up at Mycroft and away towards the window.

“One million four hundred and seventeen thousand five hundred sixty six pounds and seventy-six pence,” repeats Mycroft. “I guess it does sound like a lot of money to most people.”

“I can’t accept it, not now,” John declares. “Never, I guess. I’m… I’m angry… and I miss him and I don’t want to have to think about him ever again. I had to leave the flat, you know. Well, of course you know, you’re bloody Mycroft bloody Holmes. No doubt you’ve been following me all over London with you bloody cameras. God, I loathe you. You and… I told Mrs Hudson to stop pestering me what to do with his stuff, told her to contact you.”

“Your present surroundings are hardly a pleasant abode,” Mycroft says. John is back in the veteran’s lodgings, inhabiting the same room he occupied when he first met Sherlock.

“It does have the advantage of not being Baker Street,” John retorts.

“Indeed.” One of Mycroft’s most useful weapons is his knack for acknowledging defeat. As John refuses to budge from his present plane of grief and resentment, Mycroft is not going to waste his precious time in vain attempts to make him move back to Baker Street.

“We’ve reached the end of our discussion, then,” he states, rising from the Chesterfield to indicate John’s visit is over. “Know that the money has been invested wisely and sits accumulating value and interest as we speak. Contact me once you’re ready to accept your inheritance.”

“I’ll just walk up to one of your CCTV’s and ask for someone to pick me up in case that happens.”

“Excellent proposal. Or you could just phone me, with your phone.”

For one brief second a faint remnant of a smile tugs at John’s mouth upon hearing Mycroft’s echo of his own words at their first meeting. The next moment it is supplanted by the usual scowl of hatred.

“Might take a while, Mycroft. Expect it around the time hell starts freezing over.”

Ignoring his smirk Mycroft walks over to his desk and seats himself behind it, already reaching for his pen and the stack of papers on the left side of the desk.

“Most amusing, John. I infer you don’t want to shake hands. Please be so good as to let yourself out.” 

Mycroft can feel John’s stare boring into his scalp while he pretends to absorb himself in his paperwork. Then, with a huff that shows he has witnessed the undisputed grandmaster of tantrums hightailing it out of a room an immeasurable number of times, John turns on his heels and strides out, slamming the door to behind him with a force that would have done Sherlock proud.

So much for plan A.

***

“Mycroft?” From around the corner of the door Mrs Hudson peers up at him with blinking eyes. “What are you doing here.” The door remains firmly in place. Apparently, he’s not about to be pulled into the warm folds of Mrs Hudson’s generous welcome. 

“Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft presents her his most inveigling smile. “I came to pay you a visit.” 

The sound of rain thrumming on his umbrella is so loud he raises his voice to make himself heard. Mrs Hudson’s obvious hesitation to invite him into the house is vaguely annoying. The sturdy umbrella cloth is protecting him well enough against the liquid clattering down in torrents from a sky the colour of mercury. However, it doesn’t prevent the saturating dampness from seeping through the merino wool of both the coat and the suit he’s wearing, clinging to the skin of his legs and his back in a highly disagreeable manner.

“Oh.” She hesitates. Her whole bearing oozes animosity towards the concept of inviting him into her house. “Oh well, come in then, I guess.” 

She opens the door a little wider and steps aside to let him pass through. Mycroft shakes his umbrella and carefully refolds the cloth to ensure it won’t drip overly much onto her carpet, before stepping inside. 

“Shall we, do you want to go up?” she asks. She doesn’t offer to take his coat, just stands looking at him with her arms hanging down by her side. 

“Wherever you prefer,” Mycroft answers in a pleasant voice. 

Mrs Hudson sighs. “I was just sitting down in front of the telly with a cuppa. I’m about done in, to be honest. I’ve been having a go at Sherlock’s suits. I reckoned they’re a bit too nice for the Salvation Army and my niece is organising a charity fashion auction next week. When I told her about Sherlock’s suits she went over the moon. But there’s so many of them.”

Mycroft’s heart skips a beat in his chest. The concept of Sherlock’s suits ending up in a charity auction is inconceivable. Thank God he showed up on Mrs Hudson’s doorstep just in time to prevent it. 

“Actually, I could do with a cup of tea, Mrs Hudson,” he tells her. In return her gaze travels up and down his figure.

“Oh, all right,” she says in the end. “You’re still his brother. Even though you behaved like no brother ever should.” She pivots abruptly and precedes him into the living room. Though he is loath to part from it, he puts his umbrella into the stand before he follows her.

“You’d better take off that coat or you’ll catch your death. Here, let me.” Mycroft struggles out of his coat and hands it to her. Waving her hand into the general direction of the flowery sofa with its neat array of embroidered cushions she stalks off. 

After hitching up the legs of his trousers Mycroft lets himself sink down onto the sofa. He’s grateful he always wears knee-high stockings, for the seat is so low he can feel his trouser legs barely brush the lower part of his calves. With tentative hitches of his hips he attempts to arrange his body in a more seemly manner on the yielding seat cushions, which provide him with no leverage at all. In the end he resorts to the use of his arms to push himself up, chagrined with the world at large, the damned sofa in particular, and possibly even Mrs Hudson for owning and directing him to such an ill-advised piece of furniture. 

While fighting the cushions his glance lands on a photograph taking pride of place on the sideboard. Its simple silver frame clashes violently with the ample assortment of florid knick knacks from which it emerges, drawing all the more attention to the picture. In it Mrs Hudson is seated in a frilly duster at her dining table beneath a lamp adorned with a garland made of tiny Union Jacks. A tray sporting a prime example of a full English breakfast perches in front of her. Amidst a jumble of festively wrapped packets a single red rose rises gracefully from an Erlenmeyer flask. A little girl sighting her Christmas stocking couldn’t look happier than Mrs Hudson does as she sits looking up at Sherlock who stands beside the table, violin under his chin, no doubt regaling her with his baroque variations on ‘Happy birthday to you’. Her boys have surprised their landlady with the best birthday present she could wish for. John prepared her a feast and Sherlock was browbeaten into preparing her a serenade.

“That was such a lovely day. In the afternoon they took me to the cinema and we had dinner at Angelo’s.” Mrs Hudson’s voice startles him out of his contemplation of the picture of perfect happiness. “That man is such a dear. We didn’t have a candle on our table, because John dislikes those for some reason, but he served the most marvellous tiramisu with seventy-one candles on top, can you imagine? Sadly, that picture didn’t turn out as well as this one.”

Her eyes turn misty as she puts the tray on the table. “Do you take milk in your tea? You’re not dieting, are you? I cut you a slice of the date walnut cake I made yesterday. I keep baking these goodies, and then I have to eat them all by myself because… because…oh God.” 

Quickly, she turns and delves her hand into her apron pocket in search of a Kleenex. She dabs at her eyes and puts the paper to use next by blowing her nose forcefully.

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles, wrinkling up the handkerchief and stashing it into her apron. “Sometimes, it still gets…” she checks herself and blinks swiftly, “but Mycroft, you silly man, whatever are you doing on that sofa that’s far too small for you? You’ll ruin your back. Sherlock always sat in that chair over there, complaining that it was too low for him as well, and he was way younger and fitter than you are.”

“I’m fine, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft shushes her, grateful for the advantage his uncomfortable position brings him in softening Mrs Hudson’s heart. “And your cake smells like heaven.” With considerable difficulty he fights himself up out of the cushions to reach for his plate. “And it tastes like heaven,” he assures her after taking a bite. It is, actually, quite tasty, almost as good as Emma’s. If he were feeling munificent, Mycroft might even be willing to concede the difference between their cakes derives from the quality of the ingredients rather than a deficiency in Mrs Hudson’s baking capabilities as opposed to Emma’s.

“Thank you,” Mrs Hudson says, primly installing herself in what was, apparently, Sherlock’s chair. “Now what did you come down here for? I’m still angry at you, you know. I’ll never forgive you for blabbing about Sherlock to that horrible little criminal.”

“Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft implores, closing his eyes briefly to strengthen himself. “In my line of work one learns quickly that one truth often supplants the other; for what is the truth but our version of certain events we didn’t witness ourselves.”

“Yes, Mycroft. I know perfectly well you do nothing all day except wear yourself out bending the truth to serve your means, just like those politicians on the telly. That’s your job, isn’t it, teaching them to talk so no one will understand what they’re going on about. But you and I both know what actually happened. So why don’t you tell me what you came down here for?”

Silently congratulating her on her candour, Mycroft mumbles. “Quite”, and bends forward to deposit his plate on the table top. 

“I understand John has left the premises,” he begins. 

Mrs Hudson nods, her lips tightened into a thin line. “He tried to go on living here, but he couldn’t do it, the poor man. I told him not to worry about the rent, we’d find a way, but it turned out that wasn’t his problem at all. Well, I suppose I get it. Every time I go up there, like today, I found that Persian slipper of his he kept his cigarettes in, silly boy, and…” The hanky is pulled out of her pocket and set to work again. “I miss him… and John misses him and… I’m sure you’re not interested in all the stuff. Those books, who ever heard of someone owning so many books?” She cuts herself off for a swift glance in the direction of her small bookcase filled with the works of Agatha Christie, Nevil Shute and Howard Spring. 

Mycroft simpers and smiles at her encouragingly, all rapturous attention for her complaints and reminiscences of a happier time.

“You need to find yourself a new tenant,” he proffers.

“Yes. I’d rather not, for after Sherlock and John, well… They were such a nice pair of boys and there was always something happening. Mrs Turner now, she likes her own couple well enough and they _are_ lovely, they frankly dote on her, but with such ordinary men… I was always scolding Sherlock for making such a mess, and I was really angry with him for shooting those holes in my wall – I’ll have to have it refitted before I can have people have a look at the flat – and that one time he kept a bloody poisonous frog in my tub, but I did love him all the same.” She sniffles and gives her nose a swift swipe with the Kleenex.

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson. On Sherlock’s behalf I’d like to thank you for these sentiments. I realise he never expressed his, but I’m convinced your feelings were reciprocated.”

“Yes, I know,” his brother’s landlady sniffs. “So, what did you want to talk about then?”

Mycroft clears his throat. “I came to ask you not to let the flat to anyone else,” he informs her. “In fact, I’d appreciate it if you kept the flat in its present state, except for the suits that is,” he clarifies. “Those should be put back onto their hangers and into my brother’s closet.”

During his speech Mrs Hudson’s mouth has fallen open in astonishment, a look that doesn’t show off her face to its greatest advantage. Fortunately, she comes to herself again rather quickly and snaps her jaws shut with an audible click.

“Whatever for?” she manages. “What do you want the flat for?”

“Peace of mind would cover it best. Sherlock and I may not have been close but he was my brother and the only family I had left. I confess I find the idea of him not being a part of this world anymore rather hard to bear. The thought of his possessions still inhabiting a space, here in this city he loved, is… soothing somehow.”

“Oh.” Now she is fidgeting in her chair. “Well, heavens, all I can say is I wish you had said something nice like that to him while he was still alive.”

“I don’t think he would have borne it very well.”

“No,” Mrs Hudson throws him a faint smile. “No, I guess not. So you want me to keep the flat like it is. For how long and, listen, I don’t want to be rude, Mycroft, but Mr Hudson didn’t exactly provide well for me. All he left me was this house and a tiny pension.”

“Of course I’ll pay the rent, Mrs Hudson. And, if you’ll be so kind as to let me propose this, perhaps a kind of salary for looking after the flat.” 

Predictably, she reddens at the suggestion. “Oh no, Mycroft. I couldn’t possibly accept that. The rent is more than adequate.” 

Suddenly, she stands and looks down on him sternly. “Why are you doing this, Mycroft? I won’t have my house turned into some kind of secret operating base.”

“You’ve watched too many spy films, Mrs Hudson.”

Heaving a sigh Mrs Hudson sinks back in her chair, shaking her head. 

“I must be mad. We all are. I knew Sherlock was as crazy as a bat but you’re even worse, Mycroft Holmes. I guess I’ve always known, though, from the moment I first set eyes on you. You’re high up there in the belfry, you really are. And you’re supposed to be the government, God help us all.”

***

The shop assistant places the luxurious, matte silver covers on top of the boxes with deft veneration and neatly places them in the Liberty shopping bag.

“Enjoy your purchase, sir,” he hands over the bag with the obligatory smile.

“Thank you,” Mycroft smiles just as insincerely back at the boy.

Up in the guest room he places the boxes side by side on the bed and lifts the covers, stashing them in the bag. He has to work his hands through a veritable _mille feuille_ of intricately folded black tissue paper to reveal the boxes’ actual contents, the cobalt blue dressing robe and another – even better one – cut out off a smoky-grey satin with a discreetly embroidered hexagonal pattern on the lapels and cuffs. 

A warm satisfaction fills him as he imagines Sherlock’s pleased look on discovering the robes in the closet. “Mycroft,” he’ll purr, divesting himself of his suit jacket to try them on, the grey one first. “You shouldn’t, but I’m so glad you did. How do I look?” 

“How do you think you look? Come here.”

Sherlock will walk up to him then and lace his arms around Mycroft’s neck.

“Thank you, Mycroft,” he’ll whisper. “You’re simply the best brother in the whole world.”

***

Mycroft presses the tops of his fingers into his palms so hard he can feel his nails tearing at the flesh. The pain helps him to keep his voice level and low.

“Why haven’t you found him yet? You’ve been looking for him for more than a month now. No man can vanish like that, without leaving a trace. You aren’t doing your job. Do you want me to fire you?” 

“No. We’re talking about a highly organised…”

“Exactly. You’re talking instead of acting. I have to be out of the country for a week. If you can’t provide me with any information on Moriarty’s whereabouts upon my return you will have lost your job through your own sheer incompetence. I will ensure no government agency will hire you, anywhere, ever again.”

“Yes.”

“Now go and find him!”

Mycroft slams the phone down on his desk. His angry shouting hasn’t brought him any relief. All it has done is add to the growing uneasiness that he is the most useless brother that ever existed.

***

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Anthea dear. Sleep well.” 

James shuts the door of the Bentley and salutes Mycroft before seating himself behind the wheel and driving off. Mycroft has insisted for Anthea to make use of James’ services, desiring her boarded up safe and sound in her own flat in the shortest possible time for a good night’s rest after the odiousness of arriving at Heathrow at three a.m.

At the taxi platform he seats himself into the first cab that pulls up and gives his address. Every now and then he makes use of a taxi as a means of transport, reasoning it is beneficial to his work to take part in the experiences of the general public every once in a while. Not that he would ever make use of the Tube or the buses that are the main cause of London’s traffic congestion, flooding the streets like the Red Plague. A taxi, however, provides just the right modicum between a distasteful and a useful mode of transport.

When they draw up in front of his gates he hands the driver his fare with a large tip. The street stretches away from him into the darkness, interrupted at comfortingly regular intervals by the circles of lights pooling beneath the streetlamps. All is quiet and peaceful, a gentle breeze ruffling the heavy branches of the great horse chestnuts that line the street like sentinels guarding affluence’s easy slumber. 

Mycroft punches in the access code to open the gates and strolls up to his front door. Inside, he switches off the alarm, puts his umbrella next to the others into its stand and hangs up his coat. Loosening his tie he walks over to his study. The familiar room springs to life as he clicks the light switch, the diffused light of the desk lamp and the glow of the lamps on the mantelpiece drawing him into their embrace after the harrowing week he’s spent In New York. He detests both this aspect of his work and the people he has to work with during these conferences, arguing and reasoning with stubborn and obtuse men and women whose sole aim in participating is the furthering of their career, not the good of the people they’re supposed to serve.

This time, half-mad with anxiety for his lover, he had to fight even harder than usual to endure their tedious self-important blabber and keep his polite smile firmly plastered to his features while suppressing the urge to strangle them.

Thank God he’s home, even though the situation here is as bad as it was over there. It’s just… With a heavy sigh Mycroft sinks in his chair.

Zero hasn’t contacted him once during the time he was in the States. Mycroft presumes this means Moriarty hasn’t been found and now he’ll have to make good of his threat to dismiss his most trusted and capable minion and then what? With Zero gone, how is Mycroft ever going to find Moriarty, and through him, more importantly, Sherlock?

Outside, the wind has picked up and now it causes a branch of the rose climbing the walls next to the window to rattle against the glass. Mycroft throws an annoyed glance in the direction of the window. That rose has been running wild this summer, he had thought of mentioning it to the gardener before leaving for New York, but if the man knew his business he ought to have noticed himself and done something about it. The incompetence of some people.

Rolling his eyes Mycroft pushes himself out of his chair to have a look. Nearing the window he notices that a large object appears to be standing in front of it, the form blends in with the darkness and yet its shape is vaguely familiar. If Mycroft didn’t know any better he’d say it was a person, peering intently into the room. The idea is preposterous, of course. Mycroft’s garden is one of the most closely guarded grounds in England; the chances of anyone sneaking in are less than nil.

In front of the window he raises his hand to the latch to open it. By now his eyes have adapted themselves to the darkness and his hand halts abruptly of its own accord as his brain makes sense of the visual input sent up to it.

On the other side of the window, gazing into the room out of the empty sockets where his eyes used to be, grinning with bared teeth, the remnants of the half-rotted flesh of his lips clinging to them, stands James Moriarty.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm off on a holiday so won't be able to write for some time. I do hope to come up with the next chapter soon however. After all this needs to be finished before S3 starts airing.


	8. I have no way and therefore want no eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a resolute motion of his arms he pushes himself up out of John’s chair and walks over to the table cum desk. He came to retrieve information, not to soak in memories that will serve no purpose but to remind him of his – temporary – loss. The better he keeps a grip on himself, the sooner he will have Sherlock back again. Back where he belongs.

He doesn’t scream. After all, he is Mycroft Holmes, the unobtrusive occupant of a minor position in the British Government, and not the teenage female protagonist in some slasher Hollywood blockbuster. However, he certainly appreciates the reality of those films in one regard, for he would like nothing so much as to start screaming, screeching so loud the glass of the window would break, causing Moriarty’s corpse to topple onto the study’s window seat in a bloodcurdling slow motion sequence.

Scream in horror. Scream in frustration. For with the consulting criminal truly dead, what chance has Mycroft of ever finding out where Sherlock is? The sight of Moriarty’s mocking grin whisks away all hope of wringing the tale of his darling brother’s fate from the master criminal’s lips – by whatever means necessary.

He’s been outplayed. The fact that he doesn’t know by whom or for what reason transports him back to the nursery for a moment, where his five-year-old self is about to throw a tantrum, and he can feel the air swishing in front of his nose as Nanny wiggles her finger at him and tells him he shouldn’t even think about it.

Seven years later, Nanny’s finger wagged in front of Sherlock’s nose. His wide-eyed gaze followed the digit’s movements for several seconds. Then he craned his neck, opened his mouth and bit down on the finger, hard. Their gardener later claimed he’d heard Nanny’s shrieks, loud and clear, even though he’d been at work in the rose garden on the other side of the house.

Mycroft, on the other hand, when confronted with the same finger, had apologised and turned to sit down in the window seat and read his book like the good little boy he was.

So now, like then, he doesn’t howl, he refrains from screeching, he makes no move to throw himself onto the floor and start pounding the oak parquet flooring with his balled fists. What he does instead, is reach for his phone and jab his thumb onto the zero.

“Yes.”

“He’s come up. At my home.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Make it ten.”

The soothing knowledge his minion will be with him soon quells the worst of the palpitations of his heart. After stashing his phone into his pocket Mycroft reaches up and pulls the curtains shut, hiding the hideous grin behind the comfortingly thorough _Britishness_ of William Morris’s Bluebell design. Then he turns and makes for the kitchen to open the backdoor and prepare a can of coffee.

***

Twelve minutes later they’re standing beside the reeking remains of the master consulting criminal, illuminated brightly by the light falling through the window of the study. The folds of the perfumed handkerchief Mycroft holds up to his nostrils in a feeble attempt at dispelling the stink of putrefaction and decay are already being conquered by the all-pervading stench. 

“Right, that’s him,” Zero murmurs. “This explains why we couldn’t trace him through any activity of his. Though…,” pulling on a pair of latex gloves he squats down and touches a small pool of indefinable liquid fed by the tiny rivulet that wells up over the highly polished leather of the fashionable, handcrafted quarter brogue fitted onto Moriarty’s right foot. With a thoughtful frown on his face he brings his hand up to his nose and sniffs with all the loving dedication of a wine _connoisseur_ preparing himself for his first sip out of a highly praised bottle, “…he’s starting to leave traces now. Still, none that will be of any use to us.”

“Mr Moriarty seems intent on defying us even in death,” confirms Mycroft. As the handkerchief doesn’t fulfil its purpose, he lets the hand holding it drop to his side. The smell is unbearable, but hardly worse than the tornado of despair swirling around the inside of his skull. “In my estimation he’s been dead for five, six weeks, wouldn’t you agree? Not that I’m an expert in these – ” He vaguely waves the fine Egyptian cotton cloth in the general direction of the corpse.

With agility belying his withered frame and greying hair Zero leverages himself up. “Exactly. Stashed away to rot somewhere and frozen three to four days ago in order to dress him and take care of the transport.”

“Frozen?” Mycroft utters in disbelief.

“Yes. Look at the relatively clean state of the suit and the shirt. Not that last night’s downpour did much to preserve it. Still, it would all have looked a lot messier if he’d been in his natural state when they dressed him.” Unfazed, he brings his face close to the seams of the left arm of the suit. “See, they had some trouble here, getting in the arm. They sewed up afterwards, rather crudely. Come have a look.”

“No, thank you.” Only his Queen’s express wish would induce Mycroft to step any closer to the disintegrating body.

“You’ve been away?”

“Yes, for a week, the UN conference.” Which took place aeons ago, in another world of normalcy far away on the other end of the universe. The world where Mycroft determines the rules of the game and is not turned into a fleeing Pompey, wandering ashore in a hostile land to be slain by a cowardly assassin’s hand. “We landed an hour ago.”

“And your housekeeper?” Zero continues his interrogation while popping off the gloves.

Mycroft sighs and rubs a tired hand over his face. “She’s on a two-week holiday.”

“That gave them ample time for the scouting activities. Your presence at that conference wasn’t a state secret?”

“No.” 

“My boys already ascertained with the Met that, two nights ago, three drunks raised a bit of a commotion here. A pair of friendly bobbies on their round noticed two men staggering under the load of a third, who was rather the worse for wear. That one, I surmise, was Moriarty, on his way to being delivered to his current resting place. Drunks, they’re everywhere, aren’t they? And we forgive them their weakness so easily. We’ve lifted the files on the incompetents that failed to take a closer look at the offenders. Even for a drunk, the third man must have looked suspiciously numb.”

“Good.” Mycroft nods his approval. The wind rises up suddenly, and a fresh whiff of corporeal putrefaction wafts up into his nostrils. “Would you mind if we pursue the remainder of our conversation elsewhere?” he suggests. “Inside, preferably.”

Shaking his head his dogged minion snaps on a fresh pair of gloves and produces a torch. “First, I want to find out what they did this time to sabotage the CCTV’s. No use alarming the neighbours. I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

***

Twenty-four minutes later Zero enters the kitchen, his features even more drawn and tight than usual.

“Do you mind if I sit down?” he asks.

“Coffee?” Mycroft questions him.

“Yes, please.” The man sighs and loosens his limbs with the swift thoroughness of a dog shaking itself dry after a swim, before collapsing into a chair.

“They’ve got…,” he begins and screws his eyes shut briefly, contemplating how to convey his message. His hand creeps into his jacket pocket and comes up bearing a tiny flat box on the flattened palm, the size a quarter of a memory stick, its colour the unprepossessing white of the average CCTV camera. “This is a sender. All you have to do is attach it to the camera whose feed you want to interfere with. It will sit recording the surroundings first, for about fifteen minutes or so, and then it will shut off the camera feed and send the same recording over and over and no one will ever be any the wiser. Ideal for gardens where nothing is happening, except for some branches stirring and waving in front of the camera.”

His eyes flick up to Mycroft to gauge the reaction of his employer. 

Mycroft’s hand, in serving the coffee, is perfectly steady. “Neat,” he observes. “Sadly, technology and ingenuity aren’t the government’s exclusive prerogative. So far we haven’t been able to define a law to bring them under our domain. We are working on it, as you’re aware.”

“Yes.” 

“I was going to have a word with the gardener,” Mycroft defends the rather overgrown state of his garden walls. His minion’s brow remains furrowed. It _was_ a rather lame attempt at a joke, as Mycroft will be the first to admit. However, his position won’t allow him to plead extenuating circumstances, no matter that he would be fully justified in doing so. Instead, he pours himself some more coffee before continuing in a light tone. 

“It _is_ an admirable piece of technology, but we foresaw something like this being developed years ago, didn’t we? The small size is impressive, but the fact remains it needs to be stuck onto a camera in order to work. Really, I don’t see why this nifty piece of human enterprise should upset you so.”

The bewildered look of consternation on the usually impassive features of his faithful employee is almost comical. “They managed to attach it to a camera guarding your house,” he spews out. “Probably to some other cameras in the vicinity as well, I didn’t check yet.” 

“Indeed,” Mycroft lifts his right eyebrow in acknowledgement. “They, whoever they are, were most determined to prepare me a memorable welcome-back-present. A laudable endeavour, and one in which they succeeded spectacularly well. But only think of the amount of careful planning they must have invested to be able to pull off their little lark. You’re afraid of a recurrence elsewhere, resulting in real damage. Maybe I’m treating this too lightly, but I’m not afraid of such an incident. The idea is too elaborate and far-fetched. This is a personal affront, nothing more.”

He chews the right-hand corner of his lower lip, thinking. “Still, you should alert your people. Code B. Keep me updated as to the costs. The Minister is not to know.”

“Yes. I catch your drift,” Zero replies curtly. “What I don’t see is why they should go to such lengths to install a stiff in your garden?” Genuine puzzlement creases Zero’s features, which are usually so vapid and disinterested; an act Mycroft has seen him perfect over the years. In a way, Zero’s current discomfort is a compliment to Sherlock, Moriarty and the great unknown who’s holding their strings in his omnipotent, invisible hand. Right now, though, Mycroft is not in the mood for pleasantries.

“Not just any corpse,” he corrects. “The remains of James Moriarty. The man we’ve been hunting down in vain in his disguise as the master consulting criminal. Now it turns out he was nothing but a hired-in actor after all. That’s what’s frightening me. Not some piece of technology.” In one gulp he downs the remains of his fourth cup of coffee before placing it on the table in perfect alignment with Zero’s. “Here’s what you will do. You’ll find the man who staged this melodramatic tableau in my garden. You have _carte blanche_. I don’t care how you procure the necessary information, or how much you spend in order to obtain it, as long as you’ll be able to present a name to me. Preferably together with an address.”

“Yes.”

“Good. I’m working on a list of people who might bear me a grudge. It is rather a long list, I’m afraid. I’ll hand if over to you once I’m finished in the hope it will aid you in your investigations.”

“Yes.”

“Any ideas so far?” Mycroft enquires, striving for a general tone of dispassionate interest, while painfully aware his performance is as convincing as that of any MP hotly claiming that ‘no, he hasn’t abused the allowance and expense system’ in front of a troupe of scandal-eager journalists. 

“None,” Zero admits, accompanying his confession with a chagrined, chopping motion of his hand. “I suggest we start with having a closer look at Moriarty himself.”

“Excellent idea,” agrees Mycroft. He pushes himself up and walks towards the door to the servant’s hall. “I expect a preliminary report on my desk by the time I wake up. Make sure your men lock up properly when they leave the premises. And oh…,” his hand is already on the handle when he turns around. “Maybe _you_ should contact the garden service and ask them for an explanation of their sloppiness in maintaining the property. Anthea will give you their address. Good night.”

***

In order to be able to wake up, one has to fall asleep first. No matter how many times Mycroft tosses and turns in his bed, the longed-for sleep doesn’t come. In the end he settles for staring up at the ceiling with sightless eyes. 

His face is warmed by the sun’s rays peeking through the gap between the curtains before boldly entering the room to travel over his prone form.

Overwhelming exhaustion keeps him chained to the mattress. He’s tired. So very, very tired. And yet he can’t sleep. The moment he closes his eyes Moriarty’s odious, grinning visage leaps out at him. The master criminal giggles, high and nasty, and starts to sing, twirling his dead limbs in an accompanying, graceful little jig: 

"Sherlock lies in his dead man's chest—  
...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!  
You’ll never find him and I know best—  
...Yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!"

***

_Oh God. Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock…_

_He’s dead, he must be dead._

_Oh God._

***

James Moriarty’s real name was, and this might surprise quite a number of people, like the Sun’s readers for instance, James Moriarty. That fact Mycroft’s men have proven easily enough with the help of a birth certificate and Moriarty’s dental records. Even that forensics expert Sherlock used to deride in his most scathing tones could have informed Ms Riley and her superiors that this was the way to go about procuring evidence…

Heaving a deep sigh Mycroft draws a hand over his face and blinks his eyelids rapidly several times to clear his thoughts. Anger serves no purpose and will only distract him from the task at hand, so he instructs himself to brush off the sentiment and concentrate on the report in front of him instead.

The pathologist’s initial assumption – from which no conclusions are to be drawn until several test results, a list of which is attached to the report, have become available – is that Moriarty died from severe brain damage. The damage was inflicted by a bullet from a gun, shot at close range, i.e. the barrel was inserted into the deceased’s mouth at the time the gun was fired.  
Death occurred approximately six weeks ago. Due to the state of the body narrowing this time frame might be impossible.  
Given the trajectory of the bullet through the palate and the brain, it is most likely the wound that led to the deceased’s instantaneous death was self-inflicted. This theory is further supported by the lack of bruises on the body (apart from a discolouration on the shin, probably caused by the deceased walking into a sharp edge of an object a few days before his death). Due to the condition of the body during the time of the examination some minor bruises might have gone unnoticed. However, any bruising caused by the deceased struggling against a restriction of his limbs or the introduction of the barrel into the oral cavity would still have been noticeable, despite the advanced state of decay of the body.

The skin on the inside of the body’s right ear appears to be slightly damaged. Sadly conclusions are hard to draw, given the state of the skin. However, it appears safe to theorise before the facts and assume the damage was inflicted by the violent removal of an inserted object out of the ear after death had occurred.

Slowly, Mycroft replaces the papers on his desk and takes a bite of the toast he’s coated liberally with Emma’s excellent peach jam. No matter how much he eats these days, he keeps losing weight. But then, he hasn’t been eating that much lately. 

What can he infer from the dry words he’s just read? In his mind’s eye he’s standing on St Bart’s rooftop again, gazing at the emptiness stretching away in front of him with the benumbed terror of a mouse, listening to the screeches of the owl from which it is hiding under a thin layer of ineffectual foliage. Around him the helicopter sweeps and suddenly he _knows_ it’s just completed its task of picking up Moriarty’s corpse from the roof.

‘But,’ he argues, ‘there was nothing, no trace, not even a shred of yellow brain matter.’

‘No, of course not,’ he corrects himself, ‘of course not. The bitumen was wet, don’t you remember? It had rained earlier that day, and there wasn’t that much wind, so you assumed the wetness was a result of the rain that had fallen earlier instead of thinking clearly, you…’

‘Fine. You’re right. Even you will have to admit that trail vanished up into the air.’

And now he’s reduced to arguing with himself in his _head_. 

***

Nine days later Mycroft sits in his office adding the last code word to the virtually endless list of enemies he’s compiled. His hands tremble slightly as he screws the cap back onto his fountain pen. The self-imposed task has drained his already severely depleted reserves. Normally, the list’s sheer length would have been a boost to his morale. After all, one can’t make an omelette without first breaking the eggs and Mycroft’s omelette is one of the fluffiest, most mouth-watering specimens in the land. Never mind that right now his taste tends towards an undercooked, burnt and tasteless exemplar; like the one Joe Average might expect to have his Jane serve him on a Sunday morning. 

The benefits of an unassuming, ordinary life.

Well, averageness has never been an entry in the dictionary of any Holmes.

To prevent the possible rise of regret over the great number of foes he’s amassed during his career, Mycroft digs into his jacket pocket to whip up his phone and ring the familiar number. 

“Yes.”

“The list is complete. Please do come to collect it.”

“Yes.”

A quarter of an hour later Anthea’s head appears around the door of his office after a brief knock. The expression on her face is one of bemusement and slight fear.

“Someone to see you, sir,” she announces. “I think he’s the same person that contacted me last week for your gardener’s address. He refused to give his name but told me you were expecting him.”

“Indeed,” Mycroft answers, smiling up at her from behind his desk. “Do send him in. We’ll have coffee and – assuming it is not too much trouble for you, my dear – maybe some of those exceptional sandwiches of yours?”

“Of course,” she says and steps aside to allow his guest access to the room. 

Mycroft pushes himself away and up from the desk. “Thank you for coming over this quickly. Sit down,” he stretches his arm in the direction of the sofa.

“Yes. You told me to expect your summons. The list.” He holds out his hand to receive it. Short and to the point as ever. But then that’s the reason Mycroft employs the man.

“Let’s wait until Anthea has served us our coffee,” defers Mycroft. “Any gardening news?”

His employee heaves a deep sigh, annoyance rippling over his face. “Nothing.” A short, chopping motion of his hand. “An unfortunate combination of personal and personnel problems. Two of your Russian neighbours pressured them into some creative rescheduling of their workload. Of course they’d noticed the high density of CCTV cameras around your garden, and had inferred you must be something of a big shot, but that’s nothing out of the ordinary in _that_ neighbourhood. They genuinely have no idea who you are and how their prioritising could have led to any harm. It won’t happen again. They were most sincere in their expressions of reassurance,” he concludes in a bland tone.

“Good, that’s good,” Mycroft smiles. “Ah, Anthea… and sandwiches. Excellent!”

He makes a show of rubbing his hands in pleasure. 

“Now for the list,” he turns towards his employee once the door has fallen closed behind his assistant. “It is handwritten and for your eyes only.” From beneath his eyelashes he studies the effect of his words but, as Mycroft half expected, the man’s face retains its air of impassivity. 

“I haven’t made a copy for I don’t want to risk it falling into the wrong hands,” Mycroft carries on. “I’ve underlined the names you should start with. As you can see I’ve added two columns behind the column with the names and addresses. These are code words. They’re personalised. They won’t mean anything to you or, should the list fall into the wrong hands – an eventuality that won’t come to pass. At least for your sake I do most sincerely hope so – to that individual, but they’ll tell me all I need to know. Text me the word in the first column if you’ve finished your investigation and found nothing on the person whatsoever, and the word in the second column if you’ve got information to divulge regarding that person.”

The man besides him nods his head to indicate he understands. “All information passes between these four walls,” he says.

“Exactly.” Relief and sincere gratitude flood Mycroft’s chest. He can rely on this man. Together they will find Sherlock, wherever he is and whoever has abducted him.

“Anything about Moriarty?” he asks, reaching for a sandwich.

“Rumours, nothing concrete yet. They all talk easily enough, especially after we’ve put on a little pressure, but the shifty bugger remains nothing but a name and a bank account.”

“I see.” That damnable Swiss account in Moriarty’s name, accruing a staggering 6% interest on capital that would help finance about one fifth of the British national debt. Opened by James Moriarty in person in 2005, and untouched and unclaimed since. “I’ve read the reports of course. Your men are doing a thorough job.”

“Yes.” While uttering his favourite word Zero has risen and made for the door, stashing the folded list in his inner jacket pocket.

“I’ll also have a look through my brother’s files,” Mycroft says casually. “See whether those will produce any leads.”

“Yes.”

He opens the door, nods, and he’s gone.

***

“Mycroft!” The look Mrs Hudson sends him while peering up at him could be described as being lukewarm, a temperature that’s actually higher than what Mycroft had bargained for.

“Mrs Hudson,” he responds in a genial tone, presenting her with the tasteful arrangement of brightly glowing _Abbaye de Cluny_ roses he’d asked Anthea to procure for him earlier that day.

“Oh, Mycroft, how lovely. You shouldn’t have.” Mrs Hudson clasps her hand in front of her chest in delighted surprise. “Such beauties. And peach, what a charming gesture.”

With a slight bow he hands her the bouquet and she makes a show of dipping her nose among the flowers and sniffing deeply. 

“Lovely,” she repeats, rewarding him with a gratifying smile. The next moment she appears to become aware of the state of the weather, London’s usual, and becomes all fussy hospitality. 

“Oh, you silly man, do come in,” she says in an impatient tone before stepping back and gesticulating in the direction of the hallway. “You’ve brought the rain with you again. Give me that umbrella, it’s soaking wet.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” Mycroft gratefully hands her the requested item.

“And your coat… just look at the hem.” After carefully resting the flowers on the small sideboard she starts pulling at the shoulders of his raincoat with impatient little tugs.

“Thank you,” he tells her again.

“Nothing to thank me for.” She picks up the bunch of roses and trails her fingers over the delicate flower heads. “Now, Mycroft. What do you want?” 

“I’d like to have a look around the flat, if you don’t mind. There’s some photographs…”

“Well, it’s your flat, isn’t it?” she interrupts him. “You can go up and have a look any time. It looks presentable enough. I dusted the place only yesterday.”

“That really isn’t necessary, Mrs Hudson.”

“Of course it is,” Mrs Hudson defers. “I don’t want to live beneath a slovenly mess, thank you very much.”

Discreetly, Mycroft coughs behind his balled fist. “That was rather my impression of the flat while John and Sherlock were living there,” he says.

“Yes, well…” The observation temporarily silences her. “We did our best, me and John both,” she retorts.

“I’m well aware of that,” Mycroft soothes her ruffled feathers. “I’ll be up then.”

“I’ll come and bring you your tea.”

“Only if your hip allows it, Mrs Hudson.”

“Oh, Mycroft.” Suddenly tears blink in her eyes. “Oh, damn…” With an impatient hand she swipes at them. “You’re… you’re… that’s so kind of you. Just like Sherlock…” She makes to turn away. Mycroft places a hand on her shoulder. Beneath the heavy pat of his hand the bones feel brittle and awfully thin.

“I’ll come down and have tea with you later,” he promises.

“Yes, you do that, Mycroft. Just knock on my door. I still have some fruitcake left.” 

With his hand on the railing he slowly ascends the seventeen steps. The door to the flat is closed. He lays his hand on the handle, shuts his eyelids and pushes down the handle.

Inside, the flat lies empty and devoid of life. The arrangement of the furniture has never been so neat. All Sherlock’s clutter is still there, silently standing at attention in well-organised rows. It’s like walking into a museum. A museum celebrating a man and a friendship, long dead and almost forgotten. 

Frantically, Mycroft swallows to control the pain constricting his chest. 

“Sherlock.”

He’s spoken his brother’s name aloud. He whips his head around but the hallway and stairs behind him are empty. Mrs Hudson has gone back into her own flat and not followed him, thank God.

His misted gaze travels towards the sofa of its own accord. Before he’s even aware of what he’s done, he’s on his knees in front of it, open-mouthedly pressing his face into Sherlock’s beloved fleur-de-lys cushion. 

His eager nose detects faint traces of the smell of Sherlock’s hair lingering among the velvety tufts of the fabric. He wallows in the heady cocktail of delectable cleanliness and the faint whiff of the lime-tree blossom shampoo his brother favoured. For a blessed second Mycroft is convinced his lips are actually brushing a soft curl, close to Sherlock’s ear.

“Oh my darling,” he sobs. “Oh my love, my love.” 

Acute grief has grabbed him by the throat and left him momentarily stunned. He clings to the cushion for another forty-five precious seconds before he forces himself to let go of it and leverage himself up on his stiff legs. 

Willing his gaze away from the empty chair on the other side of the mantelpiece, he staggers towards the chair he always used during his visits – John’s chair – and sinks down in it. Maybe he should seat himself in Sherlock’s chair so he won’t have to see it. To his dismay fresh tears start to trickle over his cheeks at the thought of positioning himself on the cushions that have supported his brother’s lithe figure so often. A shiver runs down his spine at the idea of the cracked leather caressing the seat of Sherlock’s trousers. 

_Christ, Sherlock, oh, for the love of God._

Severely annoyed with himself he pulls forth his handkerchief and blows his nose several times in order to clear his head. This silly sentimentality won’t do.

With a resolute motion of his arms he pushes himself up out of John’s chair and walks over to the table cum desk. He came to retrieve information, not to soak in memories that will serve no purpose but to remind him of his – temporary – loss. The better he keeps a grip on himself, the sooner he will have Sherlock back again. Back where he belongs.

_At my side. And I’ll never let you out of my sight again. Never!_

Sherlock’s laptop is sitting on the table top, ready to serve. Mycroft’s hands without prompting; he watches as if from a great distance how they open the apparatus and press the start key. Only then does he sit down and temple his fingers in front of his mouth to contemplate the locked screen. Naturally, he has no idea what Sherlock’s password is. There’s never been any need for them to exchange their passwords, quite apart from the fact they both believed sharing information of that kind too great a risk. They’d never for a moment considered that one day one of them might need to access the other’s files.

“Come on, Sherlock,” Mycroft mutters. “What is it?” The screen reflects his face, mocking him, while his fingers trail lightly over the residue of grease of Sherlock’s fingertips coating the keys. Sherlock’s laptop, his brother’s. The brother he adores, the brother he loves, so much…

“Ah,” he breathes. “Oh, really Sherlock, such cheek.” 

He shakes his head in amused disbelief while his fingers fly over the keyboard. Behind him he hears Sherlock’s soft chuckle and he quivers with delight at the luxurious brush of Sherlock’s half-parted lips over his nape, just above the collar of his shirt.

_”Neat, isn’t it?” he murmurs, his smoothly-shaven jaw caressing Mycroft’s. “No one would ever have figured out that one.”_

_“I did.”_

_“Yes, because you’re the only one who knows. I love you, Mycroft.” His hand travels down along Mycroft’s shoulder and for a fleeting second their fingers entwine –_

The computer springs to life and starts building a screen desk that’s brimming with short cuts to files filled till overflowing with information. Lovely information Mycroft can feed his minions to help him find the laptop’s owner.

Mycroft is still quietly congratulating himself on his fortuitous inspiration at password guessing when his eye is drawn to the right hand upper corner of the screen. Something appears to be amiss there. The screen flickers in a burst of colours and the next moment the colours drain away, fleeing before a darkness that steals over the screen with the inevitability of the moon slotting itself between the Earth and the Sun.

“What?” Mycroft utters, aghast, his hands gripping the sides of the machine that feels unaccountably warm against the sudden cold dampness of his palms. “What the…”

By now all colour has been sucked out of the screen and Mycroft is staring into black nothingness.

Suddenly the screen erupts in an explosion of blindingly bright, white light, causing Mycroft throw up his hands in an attempt to shield his face. It proves to be nothing but a flare-up of screen particles however and Mycroft is just heaving a sigh of relief when the whiteness starts rearranging itself, spelling a message on the screen:

BIG BROTHER CAN’T WATCH

For ten seconds the caption letters stand out, conveying their point, loud and clear.

Then the laptop switches itself off.

***


	9. But I will tarry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One day his fist closes itself around a natty little lump of embarrassment, and before the sad sod has the chance to find out what hit him, the Commander of Professional Standards topples from his pedestal, all chances of further employment in her Majesty’s service forever ruined. Mycroft’s lower lip twitches slightly as the news of the tiring desk jockey’s extinction reaches him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> many, many thanks again to the fantastic frozen_delight. I can’t thank her enough for her help and advice. She was very stern with me this time and justly so. The chapter profited immensely from it so I’m very grateful to her. Any remaining mistakes are mine of course

The sound of the doorbell rings through the house. After picking an imaginary particle of fluff off his left cuff, Mycroft rises from the chair where he sat waiting and checks in the mirror over the mantelpiece whether his tie is properly aligned to the lapels of his jacket.

Downstairs, Mrs Hudson is showering his visitor with voluble expressions of rapture on their fortuitous meeting.

“He told me someone would call upon him here, and I thought how strange, he must have himself a nice, big office in Whitehall – what would he come down here for to see somebody in the boys’ flat. Because, you know, I said to him I didn’t want him to use the place as a spy operating base, so I was a bit taken aback when he barged in half an hour ago like he owns the house – never mind that he pays the rent, and promptly, mind you – and asked me to put the kettle on…”

A vague murmur makes a brave effort to breach the insurmountable wall of chatter, but she waltzes on, her voice drawing nearer while they ascend the stairs, obviously desperate for some flummery.

“…here, take this, would you – be careful, for it is quite heavy and that’s a pot of freshly brewed tea there – and now it turns out he was expecting you, which is so lovely, as I haven’t seen you for far too long. I guess you’re still busy dealing with all those horrid people at the Met. I don’t mind telling you, I really didn’t like your boss, there was no reason for him to start calling Sherlock names, and I told him I would have reminded him of his manners myself, if John hadn’t already done so, and that’s a fact. Well, Mycroft, you could have told me you asked the Inspector to drop by. If I’d known, I would have gone out and made sure there was something better to go with the tea than some of yesterday’s leftover prune cake.” In speaking to him the tone of her voice descends from elation to gentle reproach.

His smile unwavering, Mycroft eases the tea tray out of DI Lestrade’s hands and places it onto the table, over the big stain etched into the varnish. 

“I wanted to surprise you,” he shushes Mrs Hudson. “We’ll do your cake justice, I promise. It smells delicious. No doubt the DI will take up with my assurances that your culinary endeavours with regards to baking always result in a cake that is tasty, nectarous and filling in a most satisfying manner.”

“Hmm,” Lestrade harrumphs, stashing his hands in his trouser pockets. 

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft addresses him warmly, extending his hand. “Thank you for coming over. How are you?”

The question is superfluous as the answer is obvious to anyone who has eyes in his head. 

“Fine,” Lestrade responds nevertheless, dragging his hand out of his pocket, and grips the proffered fingers. “Fine.”

“I forgot to take your coat, Inspector,” Mrs Hudson busies herself around the DI’s dishevelled form. “Just give it to me and make yourself comfortable.”

“Excellent advice,” Mycroft seconds her, gesturing towards Sherlock’s chair, drawn up close to the fireplace where Mycroft has started a small fire earlier, to battle the chill of a prematurely cold September day. “Will you join us for a cup, Mrs Hudson?”

“Oh no, Mycroft, I couldn’t do that,” she dismisses the invitation. “You two have business to discuss and you wouldn’t want to do that with me around. You come down and visit me once you’re done here, Inspector. I’m looking forward to it. See you later, Mycroft.”

“As you wish.” Mycroft bows her out of the room and shuts the door behind her. 

Meanwhile Lestrade has collapsed into Sherlock’s chair. During the short stretch back to the table Mycroft studies the DI out of the corner of his eye. It is drawn irresistibly to the spot of alum on the middle of the man’s chin, indicating where the shaving blade went awry that morning. 

Even more indicative of the turmoil of the detective’s current affairs is the small paunch he’s grown; the buttons of his too tight shirt are visibly straining to remain attached as he shifts in his seat. The sorry excuse for a tie wrung around the neck, the grease stain on his left thigh, the scuffed shoes and – Mycroft almost raises his eyebrows in disbelief – the two different socks, one bright blue, the other a hideous dark green, enveloping the police officer’s feet – all are a clear indication of the state of his marriage; and a perfect illustration to the file Mycroft breezed through while awaiting his visitor. The natural anxiety about Lestrade’s future during his suspension, combined with exasperation at what she chooses to interpret as his stupidity, have decided Mrs Lestrade to cross the Rubicon and hitch her wagon to the PE teacher’s once and for all. 

_Frailty, thy name is woman!_

Not that the Bard’s words apply to all women – Mycroft prefers to consider their mother, Anthea and Emma as exceptions to the rule – but in the case of the soon-to-be-former Mrs Lestrade the phrase shows an astounding acuity.

“No sugar, I take?” Mycroft asks, splashing a dollop of milk into the cup he’s preparing for Lestrade.

“What, huh…,” Lestrade rouses himself from the reverie he’s sunk into, his gaze circling the room without seeing a thing. “No, no, better not, I suppose.”

“But you won’t disappoint Mrs Hudson by refusing a piece of her cake, I hope. That definitely won’t do.”

A faint smile flits over Lestrade’s tired features.

“No, I guess you’re right,” he concedes. “Know what? Two spoons of sugar in my tea would do me just fine. Frankly, the stuff is undrinkable without.”

“Indeed.” _This_ stuff is. Mycroft shudders at the revoltingly strong tannin smell wafting up his nose as he hands the DI his cup.

“How are things at the Met?” he asks pleasantly after he has seated himself with tea and cake in John’s chair. “Has the commotion died down a bit?”

Lestrade grimaces. “I wouldn’t know, really,” he says. “I’m suspended. Me and the whole team. Donovan is livid at me. Her case looks the best though… and Anderson’s. After all, they had the courage to set the ball rolling.” His fingers are playing with the cake, reducing it to a heap of crumbles. Suddenly, his head jerks up and his gaze bores straight into Mycroft’s. 

“I still don’t believe it, not a word of it. When Donovan made her case it all sounded so convincing. So I agreed to investigate, but also because I somehow hoped she would be proven wrong. She’s a good officer, one of the best – God, I hope I haven’t managed to damage her career, she deserves better, she does – but she has always been dead set against Sherlock. Hated the bloody sight of him. She just couldn’t stomach his arrogance. She was right, actually, he could be an annoying git. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve wanted to punch him in the face. Christ…” A groan wrings itself from his throat and he hastily covers it by downing his tea in one big gulp.

“Another one, Detective Inspector?”

“Why not?” With a wild motion Lestrade thrusts the rim of the saucer into Mycroft’s outstretched hand. “It’s strange, being here, with Sherlock and John gone. The last time I came here… Jesus, I came to arrest him. I’ve lain awake so many nights asking myself, what if I hadn’t… I’m so sorry… He, he, John was angry, he shouted at me, but Sherlock… Jesus fucking Christ, pardon my language, what a mess. I still can’t believe he jumped. Just like that… he jumped. Whatever was he thinking? He must have been desperate, bloody hell.”

“My brother’s thoughts have always been a mystery, even to those nearest to him.”

“Oh. Yes. Well. I suppose so. Still, it’s a damned shame. He was a bloody genius. I… Cynthia, she said… oh, damn her, damn her…”

To Mycroft’s dismay Lestrade begins to cry. It starts with just a sniff and a suspicious wetness of the eyeballs, but soon fat, glistening tears are gliding down his cheeks, accompanied by undignified noises of remorse.

Inwardly, Mycroft sighs. What is it with the lower and middle classes that they are so intent on inflicting their emotions on everyone else? In this whole harrowing affair he’s the one with best cause for appearing slightly upset, and yet he isn’t embarrassing others by bawling his eyes out in front of them, now is he? 

The detective’s hands are searching his bollixed form for a handkerchief - in vain.

“Here.” Mycroft holds out the spare handkerchief he always carries in his left-hand pocket. Instantly Lestrade’s nervous fumbling reduces the meticulously pressed square of snow-white, fine cambric into a sodden, crumpled rag. He eyes it with an embarrassed air, uncertain what to do with it..

“Keep it,” Mycroft tells him pleasantly. “You have my sincere sympathies, I assure you. Your situation certainly isn’t an enviable one. Do you mind if I ask whether you’ve already been assigned a defence barrister?”

“God, no,” Lestrade’s sigh is one of deep uneasiness. “I keep postponing it… hoping it won’t have to come to that. Stupid of me… I know.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Detective Inspector,” Mycroft controverts. “You must have some friends left in the force. Besides, a barrister worth his salt will have no trouble turning to your advantage any charges the CPS may wish to bring forward.” 

The moment Anthea had informed him Lestrade had, predictably, been suspended, Mycroft mounted a campaign of pressurising the police to allow Lestrade to keep his position. His argument was that they had every incentive to keep the debacle quiet, what with the Hillsborough disaster still fresh in the public’s mind. In return, he assured the Deputy Commissioner no inconvenient politicians calling for a full external inquiry would appear on his doorstep. So far the Commander of Professional Standards has proven to be a harder nut to crack. The man is an insipid pen pusher whose insistence on sticking to procedures Mycroft finds immensely tiring. In truth, people in a position that high in any organisation should understand that equity and law are unwilling bed partners most of the time, with one of them frequently denying assistance to the other after having attained his own satisfying end. Currently, Anthea is digging in the peon’s files for information that will bring him round to Mycroft’s point of view, or better still, persuade the Deputy Commissioner to sidetrack the nuisance and give the post to someone with a better understanding of his own interests. 

In all of this, the fate of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is of secondary importance to Mycroft. His sole motive in reinstalling Lestrade in his position as a Detective Inspector at the Yard is Sherlock’s happiness. His brother has frequently stated Lestrade is the best of the whole lot. No doubt this was nothing but a warped admission of Lestrade’s willingness to never deny him any of his demands _and_ let him get away with his outrageous behaviour. In this case, however, Mycroft’s interest lies not in the rationale but in the result. A Lestrade restored to his former office is a Lestrade capable of inviting Sherlock to crime scenes once more. Mycroft fully realises that his idea of never letting Sherlock out of his sight again – after he’s found him – is unfeasible, as it will merely end in a very bored and unruly Sherlock. But then, if he were a docile, dutiful little brother Mycroft wouldn’t love him so much.

“Yes, well,” the DI attempts to recollect himself. “I do have some friends, I think, but I don’t know whether they’ll be able to help me. The whole situation confounds me… nothing but rumours and politics and I’ve never been much of a one for those.”

“Indeed.” Mycroft confirms Lestrade’s words with an affable smile. “Some people need to actually do some of the real work or where would we all be? Which brings me to the reason I asked you to be so kind as to meet me here, Detective Inspector.”

“Fine. I’m listening.”

***

_Mycroft kept pushing the start button with the stubborn tenacity of a laboratory rat that’s been trained to expect a reward if it keeps repeating the same action over and over and over and over again. What made him stop was the hiss of battery acid eating its way into the table top, and the ensuing sharp smell of stripped varnish. A clever little Trojan horse had been lurking in the dark mazes of the internet, ready to pounce and destroy the laptop the moment it sought to connect itself to the rest of the world through the sesame of the password._

_The stench woke him from his stupor. Tentatively, he touched the plastic casing with his forefinger. It was smoking hot, in trying to restart the laptop he had caused it to overheat. No doubt the hard drive was completely destroyed, not that anything would have been left on it after the specifically designed virus had swept through its contents. Mycroft balled his hands so hard his nails tore at the flesh of his palms. His breath wrung itself from his chest, ragged and laboured._

_His invisible foe had defied him – once again. From behind his closed visor he was sneering at Mycroft, mocking him, and all Mycroft could do was rage and weep in his impotence._

_And be afraid, so very afraid for the fate of Sherlock. His lover,_ his darling _…_

_After fifty-two seconds Mycroft was able to think clearly again. Slowly, he unclenched his fists and used them to push himself back from the table. He reached for his phone next and slotted his thumb to the zero._

_“Yes.”_

_“How’s Baker Street?”_

_“You went in half an hour ago. You’re standing in front of the right window right now.”_

_“Good. I want the place swept every two days. The flat will be occupied during the day so best send them after eleven pm. Have your men look for anything, bugs, cameras, fuses, anything.”_

_“Yes.”_

_Mycroft ended the call and turned towards the bookcase behind Sherlock’s chair. So far his opponent has been holding all cards and forced Mycroft into fighting an uphill battle with his hands tied to his back and a blindfold over his eyes, but that doesn’t mean he won’t triumph in the end._

_During the whole of his career he’s slain every contender that sought to challenge him. He’ll just have to fight harder this time._

***

“You’re asking me to do _what_?” 

Mycroft’s latest recruit in the war against his personal terror is staring at him with open-hanging mouth, his face a picture-perfect illustration of disbelief.

“I want you to search Sherlock’s personal files for information on Moriarty, or anything that could be of help in apprehending him,” Mycroft repeats his request.

“But why… I mean, you have his laptop.” Lestrade cranes his neck and nods towards the laptop that’s lolling innocently on the table, its pristine outside hiding the damaged interior.

“It’s password protected,” explains Mycroft. “We can’t approach its contents. We have tried, extensively.”

Apparently this excuse convinces Lestrade of the futility of his advice. “Of course,” he mutters, shaking his head. Silently, Mycroft exhales.

“How about a memory stick, or something,” the detective resumes doggedly. “A bit dangerous to have no back-up.”

“Please.” Mycroft wrinkles his nose. “I highly resent you suggest my brother would be so careless as to store his files where anyone could gain access to them. Memory sticks have the rather annoying habit of getting lost or stolen, I find.”

His words produce the desired effect. Lestrade looks properly admonished. 

“Luckily, for us, my brother was way more traditional than he would have the casual observer believe,” Mycroft carries on. “He was a man of the twenty-first century, but he never forgot how much we owe to our Victorian forebears. My sibling started collecting newspaper cuttings on crime at the age of six. We all thought it a rather gruesome hobby; my father upbraided my brother several times because he literally littered the house with them. I’ll never forget the morning my mother lifted the lid of what she supposed was a dish of scrambled eggs, only to be confronted with the soiled exposé of a threesome murder in which all the victims had been decapitated for some unfathomable reason.”

Opposite him, Lestrade shudders.

“That was before he started on what he liked to define as his ‘experiments’.”

“Yeah, that must have been pretty awful,” the detective affirms.

“Thanks to Sherlock’s obsession we have one of the most complete and up-to-date libraries on the annals of crime at our disposal. Sadly, my brother devoted more care to his sock index and the alphabetising of his collection of dog hair than to the proper cataloguing of the articles he cut out. No doubt he’d devised some kind of system for them but it appears to consist of leaving them scattered all over the flat. I could ask some of my people to sort through them, but they wouldn’t know what to look for. You, however, with your knowledge of both my brother and Moriarty, would. Any hint, any scrap of information to work on might prove to be invaluable over time to find Moriarty and dismantle his organisation once and for all.”

“I see, but…”

“I’ll be the first to admit it’s a rather daunting task, requiring both determination and a discerning eye. That’s why I thought of you, Detective Inspector. Usually you’re a busy man but I assumed… in the current circumstances…” Mycroft lets his voice dwindle down to an indistinct murmur.

“The poor sod has nothing to do all day but hang on the couch to watch bloody telly and get pissed,” Lestrade concludes his sentence for him. 

“I’d have chosen a less crude phrasing myself, but basically, yes, that would serve as an adequate résumé of my ideas on the subject.”

“Fine.” To Mycroft’s relief his proposal has worked wonders on Lestrade’s morale. The policeman has pushed himself up in his chair and is now leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, ready to discuss their mode of attack.

“Just… I want to be sure we’re clear on this. You’ve been talking a lot without telling me anything useful, but I understand for some reason you’ve set up your own investigation of Moriarty.” Here, Lestrade pauses and waits until Mycroft confirms his words with a stiff nod.

“Okay. I don’t see how that’s your division, seeing as you’re not with the police, but I guess it’s because you’re family. The Yard won’t be asking for my services anymore, so I might as well help you find the dirty son of a bitch that caused Sherlock to commit suicide and crashed my career.”

The DI falls silent again and swallows, clearly gathering the courage to touch upon a topic. Mycroft regards him with some impatience. Why don’t people understand that hesitating before blurting their question out anyway isn’t akin to diplomacy?

“Detective Inspector,” he prods.

“Right.” Lestrade gulps. “I’m to go through Sherlock’s stuff, which might contain… information of a personal nature.” His gaze travels all over the room before settling somewhere in the vicinity of Mycroft’s left shoulder. Had the situation been any different Mycroft would have had a hard time tamping down his amusement at the detective’s discomfort. What does Lestrade expect to find, passionate love letters from John declaring eternal devotion to his flatmate?

“My suggestion would be to treat the flat as a crime scene,” he soothes Lestrade’s uneasiness. “Rooting through personal _stuff_ is part of your job, I believe. You have my permission to search every nook and corner. I know I can rely on your discretion should anything that might be considered embarrassing to certain persons still alive come to light.”

“Oh yes,” Lestrade is quick to attest. “John is having a hard enough time as it is. What with all the insinuations in the press.”

“Quite.” Mycroft leverages himself out of his chair and picks up a pair of keys from the mantelpiece. “These are the keys to the front door and the flat. I’ll inform Mrs Hudson of our agreement, she’ll be delighted. It’s obvious she thinks very highly of you, and I know of few people with a more discerning eye.”

Ignoring Lestrade’s embarrassed flush he hands him the keys. “Now go ahead and start your investigation, Detective Inspector. You can report your findings to my assistant, Anthea. I’ll be most grateful for anything, no matter how trivial, that will help me catch Moriarty.”

_Catch the bastard that had the audacity to snatch my darling away from right under my nose._

***

‘Mug.’

‘Aphrodite.’

‘Neuron.’

‘Memory.’

‘Insect.’

‘Sand.’

The code words from the first column keep popping up in his Inbox with disheartening regularity. His minion has sunk his teeth into the list and his men leave no stone unturned, busily unearthing an unhealthy, stinking, creepy-crawly mass of nastiness Mycroft would normally have dug his hands into with relish. So much information, he’s assorting a veritable treasure trove of spare silver to smooth over any hitches that might occur during his daily workings for the good of the nation. Of course he is enough of a professional to thoroughly appreciate every piece of newly acquired wealth. Anthea has to bring in an extra assistant to help file all the information in the right dossiers.

One day his fist closes itself around a natty little lump of embarrassment, and before the sad sod has the chance to find out what hit him, the Commander of Professional Standards topples from his pedestal, all chances of further employment in her Majesty’s service forever ruined. Mycroft’s lower lip twitches slightly as the news of the tiring desk jockey’s extinction reaches him.

He’s out in the jungle, hunting the tiger, but all he’s managed to kill so far are some innocent mosquitos that were unaware their buzzing might be irritating him.

***

One day he returns from his weekly talk with the PM to find his copy of Sherlock’s will on his desk with an attached post-it confirming John will accept the inheritance after all.

“He’ll use the money to buy himself into a practice in Battersea,” explains Anthea. “You have an appointment at Berkeley and Sons next Monday at ten. Lord Snowdon’s secretary called earlier to reschedule your meeting. Today he heard his mother passed away, and he has to go down to Wales to arrange the funeral. The flowers have already been ordered, nothing too ostentatious, with a small card to express your sincere appreciation of the old lady. So I thought you might as well make use of the free time to get this business over and done with.”

“Excellent thinking,” he praises his assistant. “This whole unsavoury topic has been dragging along for far too long and it’s best to have it over and done with.”

He realises he’s being highly unreasonable – he made the poor man sit through his best friend’s funeral, for God’s sake – but somehow John’s acceptance of the money to build a new life elsewhere, away from Sherlock and Baker Street, feels like a betrayal of his brother. 

***

“Golly, another letter! Oh Lord, how wonderful. I’ll read it straightaway”. Quivering with anticipation Molly flicks her eyes around the room in search of a seat.

“Please.” Mycroft sweeps his arm with an expansive gesture in the direction of the sofa, inviting her to sit down and tear open the white envelope he closed earlier that day.

“Oh, I’m so excited,” Molly babbles, freeing the sheet from its casing with the careful devotion an archbishop bestows on the reliquary containing a nail from the cross. “Imagine Sherlock finding time to write me while he’s busy catching all these criminals.”

“Without your help he wouldn’t be in able to do so.”

“No, I guess not,” she replies absentmindedly, her eyes roving over the paper.

“Oh… oh, oh my goodness. – He had to fight somebody while standing on a platform over a waterfall. – Oh dear, there were two of them. – Well, of course he outsmarted that stupid little man, he’s so clever.”

Molly keeps up a steady stream of worshipful approval with all of Sherlock’s dashing deeds during her reading of the letter. The hushed tone of awe in her constant commentary pours like balm into Mycroft’s ears.

Molly reads the letter two times before lowering it and looking up at him with a smile on her lips.

“I do miss him,” she declares. “And I feel terrible for John and Mrs Hudson and I do hope everything will turn out all right for Greg and Sally in the end. But it was totally worth it, wouldn’t you agree?”

***

‘Truth.’

‘Vulcan.’

‘Aardvark.’

‘Table.’

‘Metabolism.’

‘Atom.’

***

Lestrade proves himself to be a worthy addition to Mycroft’s army. His reports arrive punctually, all blessedly short and to the point. Sadly, they also contain no useful information at all.

After some deliberation Orpheus ends the contract for the perusal of files, thanking his temporary hireling most heartedly for his services. 

If Sherlock is indeed still alive he’s hidden somewhere in the Country. Hidden so well that to try and smuggle him abroad would amount to plain lunacy.

Chances are high that Mycroft _is_ dealing with a lunatic. A truly dangerous and devious one. Mycroft’s first rule of war is to never underestimate your opponent. But he’s already wasted enough time as it is. With each day that passes the chance of Sherlock’s survival decreases. The time for some counter skirmishes has arrived.

***

“No, Mr Holmes? You never…” the cultural attaché to the South-African embassy pretends to hide a coquettish laugh behind her raised hand while wriggling on the sofa. The movement hitches her skirt a little higher up her thighs, revealing a truly indecent amount of leg.

The leg is shapely enough, Mycroft can see that, but Mycroft’s interest rests in one pair of legs only – long and lithe, and lightly covered with fine hairs that crinkle under his hand as he drags the palm of his hand over the strong muscles of the thigh. All he wishes for the pair of legs exposed in front of him, is to lift themselves up and carry the body they’re attached to out of the room. 

Anthea has stuck her head around the door twice by now to remind him he must hurry if he wants to catch his flight, but the blasted woman – one of those overblown egos that seem to litter the diplomatic services these days – makes a point of blithely ignoring the discreet hints she should take her leave. Instead, she persists in her attempts to have him agree on behalf of the Government to fund a joint project that will benefit lots of people except the British general public.

Finally, sickened by the scarcity of acumen, Mycroft makes a show of checking his watch and jumping to his feet with a horrified expression.

“Mrs Sanderson,” he croons, picking up the woman’s hand from where it’s resting on the sofa-arm and pressing it warmly, “your riveting conversation carried me away, but my assistant does indeed have a point. My flight is scheduled to depart from Heathrow in just under an hour. Missing it would severely jumble up my rather tight timetable. I sincerely apologise, but I must suggest we continue our talk at a date in the near future.”

He uses the grip on her hand to all but yank her from the sofa, and steer her – gently but determinedly – into the direction of the door. 

“Oh, but Mr Holmes…,” she begins, but Mycroft saunters on.

“Anthea,” he says once they’ve reached the safety of the anteroom. “Please contact Mrs Sanderson’s secretary to make another appointment in three weeks’ time.”

His assistant nods, one raised eyebrow signalling her amusement with the situation to him. 

“Goodbye, Mrs Sanderson,” Mycroft kisses Mrs Sanderson’s hand and – most certainly not amused at all – flees back to the sanctuary of his office.

Two minutes later Anthea knocks and enters the room. “Some people – ugh,” she exclaims, rolling her eyes. “You really must go now, sir” she urges next. “I’ve phoned Heathrow and they agreed to half an hour’s delay, but they said they couldn’t wait any longer or their whole schedule would be disrupted for the next twenty-four hours.”

“We wouldn’t want that,” Mycroft agrees, grabbing his umbrella and a small suitcase. “Fine. You hold the fort, Anthea. Remember to send me the reports of the Wakely commission the minute they arrive.”

“Of course, sir. Don’t worry. We have everything under control. We always do.”

“ _You_ do,” Mycroft corrects her smilingly. “That’s why I need you. I’ll see you in a week.”

Down in the garage James stands beside the open door of the Bentley, its engine running. 

“I took the liberty of phoning for an escort, sir,” he informs Mycroft while accepting the suitcase to put it into the car boot.

“Excellent decision, James,” Mycroft praises the initiative. 

The loud blare of the siren emitted by the police motorcycle that slots in front of them as they leave the garage scatters the London evening traffic in all directions. They breeze through the gridlocks, past the glaring shop windows geared up for Christmas, and arrive at the terminal in ample time.

A quarter of an hour later a flight attendant accompanies Mycroft to his seat. Once he’s installed himself he opens his copy of Ovid’s _Metamorphoses_. He never reads official documents during civilian flights, safety before everything, and he’s got twenty-four hours to kill.

***

Mycroft is sitting at his desk in front of the open window. The strong smell of roses outside the window tickles his nose pleasantly. Suddenly the door to the study is thrown open wide. Mycroft raises his head and the next moment he’s on his feet and holding his brother in his arms.

“Sherlock! Oh God, Sherlock, it’s you! It’s really, really you. You came back. How…”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock interrupts him and locks his lips to Mycroft’s in a deep and hungry kiss. His arms are clamped tightly around Mycroft and his hands rove over the back of Mycroft’s head, his back, his backside, while his tongue delves inside Mycroft’s mouth, tangling itself around Mycroft’s tongue, exploring him, caressing him, refusing to let go until they both have to dive up for air.

“God, Mycroft, I…” Sherlock pants, his glasz irises almost blacked out by widely dilated pupils. The next second his mouth – his wonderfully lush and pliant mouth – attaches itself to Mycroft again, this time to his throat, licking, and teasing, groaning in appreciation as it closes itself over Mycroft’s wildly fluttering pulse point. Shivers shudder down Mycroft’s spine, straight to his balls, drawing them tight against his body. His lover’s fingers are pulling at Mycroft’s tie with characteristic impatience, flicking open the buttons of his waistcoat and shirt. Fabric out of the way, the fingers ghost over his naked torso, meandering through the curls covering his chest, and over the little erect nubs of flesh beneath that are desperate for the touch, while Sherlock’s other hand is busy tearing open his own shirt. A mother of pearl button jumps from the fine batiste.

“Come here,” growls Mycroft, and grabs his brother by his buttocks, those warm, perfect half-globes of firm flesh he adores and he uses his grip on them to press Sherlock’s body against his, relishing the contact with his brother’s smooth white skin and every taut muscle rippling beneath it. 

Their members nudge each other through layers of clothing, seeking friction. Sherlock’s clever hands dip down to start working on their waistbands and zips. Stirred to action Mycroft laves his own hand – the hand that was holding his fountain pen three minutes ago – spitting saliva into the palm and spreading it over his fingers with his tongue, and wraps it around their erections the moment they spring free from the constricting cotton of their underwear. The rub of Sherlock’s silken skin against his most intimate flesh sets fireworks exploding inside Mycroft’s head. His eyelids fall closed and he breathes to steady himself, white lust rising hot in his belly at the feel of his brother in his hand at last, after all these months. His eyes fly wide open again when Sherlock’s hand closes over his, adding pressure, and they start moving together while their tongues entwine in yet another deep kiss. 

“Oh God.” Sherlock chokes back a sob and bucks up into the cradle of their merged fingers. “Mycroft!” Then his brother is coming, hot sperm welling up over Mycroft’s hand, and Sherlock collapses against him, groaning his relief. His dark rumble of satisfaction sends Mycroft skittering over the edge and together they crash down on the floor, to float away on the soft flying carpet of Mycroft’s orgasm.

***

“Sir, please sir…”

“Huh… what?” With a shock Mycroft jolts awake into an eerie semi-darkness. His gaze flits around and settles on the flight attendant’s face, hovering above him.

“My apologies, sir, but you appeared to be having a nightmare, you were rolling around so, and crying out. My colleague and I deemed it best to wake you up.”

“Oh, right, I see. Where are we?” Shaking his head to clear it Mycroft reaches for the button to adjust his chair into an upright position. 

“We’re crossing the equator, sir. Please let me assist you.” The steward busies himself with rearranging his chair. “Would you like anything to drink?” he enquires once he’s satisfied with the result of his endeavours.

By this time Mycroft is fully awake and flashes of his mesmerising, captivatingly _erotic_ dream flare up before his eyes. Good Lord, he’s been indulging in a wet dream like a schoolboy, during an intercontinental flight. Heaven knows what noises he’s been making? How fiercely humiliating.

He shifts in his seat, beneath the blanket mercifully covering his lap, but his skin doesn’t encounter any embarrassing wetness, thank God for that. 

Beside his chair the flight attendant stands patiently awaiting his orders. Mycroft considers a moment. As a rule, he doesn’t consume alcohol during flights, but right now he could do with a stiff drink.

“A large whiskey. No ice,” he says.

***

The inland flight to Christchurch takes a little under one and a half hours. In Christchurch he allows himself a twelve hour reprieve in a hotel at the airport before collecting his hired car.

As he steers the Range Rover southwards, civilisation vanishes behind the horizon. In less than half an hour he’s alone under the wide-open skies. The sun beats down fiercely on the metal of the car’s roof. Before long Mycroft sits sweltering in his cage, the fine cotton of his shirt glued against his back by a sheen of sweat. His body has yet to adapt itself to the difference in temperature. In a little over a full day he’s leapt from dismal London winter weather to the height of summer. In deference to his intended hostess’ corporeal sensibilities he stops the car and steps out to divest himself of his jacket and waistcoat and roll up his shirtsleeves.

Outside the car the sun’s rays stroke his skin pleasantly. He looks around. To his left the sky stretches away to span the great ocean, a shock of stark blue colour painted in bold strokes above the expanse of gently undulating, glassy-green waves that roll on, regardless. A mountain range has been accompanying him on his right, the highest tops still covered in snow. He scrunches his eyes to determine which one of them is Mount Cook, named after the explorer who was Sherlock’s hero for a short while, before he decided the life of a pirate must be even more exciting.

After another twenty-five miles the mountains drop away. Mycroft checks his map and turns sharply to the left at the next junction. The road he’s turned into consists of red gravel. In his wake a high cloud of dust rises into the air, heralding his presence to anyone who might care to look. The landscape, however, appears to be devoid of life. All his gaze encounters is grass, and rocks and blue, blue sky.

The road starts to narrow and its surface deteriorates into a jumbled mess of big stones and potholes. Mycroft slows down and guides the car around the biggest holes, grateful for his choice of the Range Rover. 

When he looks in his rear-view mirror his eye detects another dust cloud spiralling behind him. The puff is too dense to have been thrown up by his car. Something else is approaching him at great speed. Soon the apparition materialises, a galloping horse with a small figure perched on top. The huge animal rears up next to his car door. Mycroft catches sight of a riding boot pressed into the horse’s heaving flank, and jumps in his seat at the sudden loud rattle above his head. The rider is trashing the roof of the car with a riding crop.

Instantly, Mycroft’s foot hits the brake and the car skids to a halt. The horse overtakes the car, but it is turned and before Mycroft knows what’s happening the rider has leapt to the ground and yanked the door open.

“You’re trespassing,” Jennifer Plain, aka Irene Adler, snarls at him, her lovely red mouth ready to bite, if necessary. The next moment her expression softens and a smile lights up in her – carefully made-up – eyes. 

“Mr Holmes,” she drawls, “what a pleasant surprise.”

***

“Kate! Kate, where are you? We’ve got a visitor.”

The screen door falls closed behind Mycroft. Irene Adler lifts the wide-brimmed cowboy hat from her head and combs a hand through the locks that fall free, shaking them loose.

“Please, have a seat,” she indicates a chair at the huge table in the middle of the kitchen. The table top is scrubbed conspicuously clean, an earthenware pot filled with blue pincushion flowers perched in the centre. 

Mycroft sits down and glances around the bright space with the big windows over the worktop. The room reminds him of his own kitchen, with Emma in front of the Aga, stirring in her pots. The right hand corner of his mouth curls at the thought that this cosy place with its fancy lace curtains and plain wooden sideboard is the home of the world’s leading dominatrix. Or, more precisely, _former_ leading dominatrix.

The riding crop swishes close past his ear as Miss Plain flings it down on the table.

“She’s out in the garden, I guess. I’ll go have a look.”

Two minutes later she whisks in again, carrying a wicker basket filled with cherries, and Kate, arms filled with a bunch of carrots and a head of lettuce, trailing in her tow.

“You’ll be having dinner with us, won’t you, Mr Holmes?” Miss Plain states.

“It would be my pleasure indeed, if you think you won’t mind having me,” he answers.

“Your brother declined all my invitations, so I might as well settle for the next best thing. Which won’t be a hardship for me, Mr Holmes, believe me.” She puts the kettle on the hob. “Tea first, though. After all, we’re British.”

Out of the corner of his eyes Mycroft spots the slight narrowing of Kate’s. Miss Plain bracelets her narrow wrist.

“Kate, darling, you’re being ridiculous and you know it.” She brings up her hand to tilt her companion’s head and bears down on her mouth with a fierce grunt. They kiss passionately; Mycroft can see their tongues working each other. Miss Plain slips her leg between Kate’s and pushes her onto the saddle of her thigh with her free hand. Kate moans and her hips move, tentatively at first, but soon she’s riding the slender leg. The blatant smell of sex wafts through the kitchen. Discomfited, Mycroft averts his eyes. 

This is his punishment, he supposes. The Woman’s way of telling him Sherlock may have beaten her, but she still knows how to draw blood. Quietly, he coughs behind his hand.

“Kate, please, behave yourself, we have company,” Miss Plain shoves her lover away. “This naughty behaviour in front of the British Government won’t do. Excuse me.” The last sentence is directed at Mycroft while she picks up the riding crop. She brushes the supple leather of the keeper over Kate’s quivering lips, playing with them, before descending over her chin to her collarbones and slowly trailing further, down to her crotch. Her lover shivers obligingly.

“You’re soooooo sexy. Don’t you agree, Mr Holmes? Or wait, no, you prefer boys, now I remember. We’ll finish this later, darling.” Kate is dismissed with a playful flick of the crop on her left breast. Behind them the kettle starts to sing. “Ah, tea. But maybe you would like to go up to your room first, Mr Holmes, and refresh yourself a bit. Things are a bit hotter over here than down in London, I suppose.”

***

“My sincere apologies, but I’m afraid I have to point out you are, once more, digressing,” Mycroft remarks some hours later. The muscles around his mouth hurt from keeping a smile plastered to his face. The many twists and turns of their conversation have quite exhausted him. 

“Did I,” Miss Plain asks, confusion blurring her features. “Oh, I thought we were talking about the fact that Junior jumped from a roof, Jim is dead as well, long may he rot in hell, and you’re convinced there’s a third party responsible and are flying around the world to find out who that may be.”

“Basically, yes,” Mycroft pushes himself up in his seat. At last they’re getting somewhere. Relief washes over him in soothing warm waves. Maybe he did choose wisely after all in flying down here, instead of wasting precious time by sitting in this cosy kitchen on the other side of the world.

Miss Plain, certainly, appears to approve of his decision and to have derived much pleasure from their _tête-à-tête_. She lolls languidly in her chair, chewing her lip with a thoughtful expression on her face, while her beautifully manicured hand fingers the riding crop absentmindedly.

“Oh well, it’s a damned shame about young Mr Holmes,” she says at last. “I seriously lusted after him for a while. Those curls of his were just perverse, and he cut such a pretty picture in that black shirt when he visited me. It was a thrill to have him end up lying at my feet. I would have walked all over him, hadn’t Dr Watson chosen that moment to storm into my bedroom. Such a possessive creature, I was rather annoyed with him for spoiling my fun. Though, to give him his due, _I_ wouldn’t have wanted to share my dishy flatmate either, if _I’d_ been the one in lucky Dr Watson’s shoes.” She sighs. “Not that you have an inkling what I’m going on about. It really is no use discussing someone’s attractions with his sibling, is it?”

“Quite,” Mycroft murmurs. “Might I remind you that, unfortunately…”

“Although you and your brother might be the exception to that rule,” she interrupts him. “After all, you both are… rather special…”

“I don’t understand what you mean,” Mycroft says. “I informed you my brother is dead, I’d prefer if you wouldn’t refer to him in the present tense.”

“Please, you told me no such thing at all,” she shoots back. “Or maybe you did, but what you really meant is that he’s currently not available to you and you are rather desperate to find him. I would be worried too, should I find myself in your position. It was plain awful to be kept away from Kate, that time I enjoyed the Queen’s hospitality, but I had the consolation of knowing she was safe and well at least. You must be frantic with anxiety.”

Mycroft’s stomach plummets while his heart leaps up into his throat. The simultaneous migration of two of his vital organs in opposite directions leaves him slightly nauseous. He covers the trepidation threatening to make his lips twitch with a careful sip of tea.

“You have the most fertile imagination,” he offers after he’s placed his mug on the table again. His hand, he’s gratified to discover, doesn’t tremble at all.

“Thank you,” Miss Plain replies brightly. “That has always been one of my biggest assets. One needs to be quite inventive in order to properly beat somebody.”

“Indeed. However, one can also be too clever.”

She tips her head to the side and watches him from beneath heavy lids. “I’m not an idiot, Mr Holmes. I profited from your brother’s lesson.” 

A fly lifts itself up from the sideboard and starts droning near the table. The crop swishes through the air and the fly is swatted. “There,” she says in a voice saturated with satisfaction. “My other specialty. I like hitting the mark. Hence my delight in surprising you with _my_ deductions. And I didn’t even take your pulse. Oh, Mr Holmes, I confess I’ve spent the last hour with my thighs squished at the delicious thought of the British Government having it off with his own brother right under the unsuspecting nose of the nation. No…” she claps her hand to her mouth in mock exultation. “Please, Mr Holmes. Don’t tell me you’ve actually shagged your little brother in that big Whitehall office of yours. Oh, you wicked, wicked man, you have! I can see it in that flush creeping up from your collar. Did you have him on the sofa or did you bend him down over that impressive desk with those fabulous legs spread wide?” 

Mycroft is stunned, listening to her in aghast silence. Blithely, she continues. “Imagine Jim being so wrong about the two of you. Though honestly, I can’t blame him, you both play your roles to perfection. The Iceman and the Virgin, good Lord! Even I would never have guessed if you hadn’t come down here, and I’ve made a living out of knowing what people like for years.”

“Miss Plain…” Mycroft attempts to correct her, recovered somewhat and mentally running over their conversation to find out which instrument he should pull forth out of his toolbox to tamp down the notion of Sherlock and he being lovers.

“Will you stop Miss-Plaining me,” she erupts. “I’ve quite had it with you using that silly name. I get off on playing games, but on my conditions only, and seeing as you’re _my_ guest you’ll have to stick to _my_ rules. You can address me by my proper name, or you can leave right now.”

“In addressing you thus I was adhering to standard safety procedures. That name was chosen to protect you. Your blatant contempt of it alarms me.” A note of sadness rings in his voice. His unease tails off at the firm, quietly exasperated tone his throat manages to produce. 

“Oh! You’re impossible,” she snarls. “I _am_ Miss Plain, whenever we descend upon the village, not that there is much to descend upon. But up here I’m Irene Adler – that’s Miss Adler to you – and I’m kind of attached to that name.”

“Fine,” Mycroft concedes. “Miss Adler it is.”

“Thank you.” She relaxes somewhat, leaning back in her chair. “I’m not interested in quarrelling with you, Mr Holmes,” she says, purring again. “I’m well aware I depend on your goodwill for my continued existence, as does Kate, and God only knows what I’d do without her. If I’ve offended you with my glee over finding out your delectable secret, I do apologise. Regard it as professional enthusiasm, carrying me away. You, of all people, should sympathise with _that_ particular weakness.” 

She walks around the table and holds out her hand to him.

“There,” she says. “No hard feelings. I wish to be your friend, Mr Holmes. You’ve given me enough fodder for at least a decade of viciously satisfying masturbatory fantasies. They will be even better when I know there’s a chance Junior is actually on his knees at the time I’m whipping up images of those gorgeous lips around your cock, so it serves my own interests to help you find him.”

***


	10. Man's life is cheap as beast's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With a heavy sigh, flicking idly at a perceived mote of fluff on his pocket square, he opens the dossier to reveal a tightly packed, plain brown envelope. He reaches for his letter opener and slides it through the thick paper, careful not to damage whatever is inside. After he’s put down the opener again he peers into the envelope and reaches inside.

Mycroft spends the next three days at the farm, endlessly rerunning all the interactions that occurred between Moriarty and Miss Adler. Together, he and Miss Adler work through the transcripts of the contents of her phone, comparing names and dates and places with Mycroft’s own list of suspects and the few facts he managed to wriggle out of Moriarty. He’s brought along her phone, hoping the sight of the device it will help her remember certain details. Tears blink in her eyes when she reaches for it.

“My phone, my beautiful phone,” she whispers. “Oh, thank you, Mr Holmes. And you’ve kept it in such pristine condition. Not so much as a scratch.”

“It doesn’t work,” he warns her.

“I know. But it’s lovely to be able to hold it once more. Good Lord, I loved that phone.” She caresses the casing with an expert hand, curling her fingers around it while her lips part in a soft little ‘oh’. At last she relaxes her clasp and lays it down on the table with the tender care of a mother easing her first-born into its cradle. 

“Do you remember when you quoted those lines of poetry to me?” She stretches her legs sideways in languid luxury, raising one to admire her dainty ankle, and looks him over with a slow smile tugging at the corner of her blood-red lips. “That ode was written for this phone. And now it’s rotting away somewhere in a government vault, perish the thought.” Her hand chops through the air in a gesture of frustration.

Mycroft clears his throat. “Actually, I’ve presented it to Sherlock. He keeps it in his bedroom, in the drawer of his night stand.” A present, to himself as much as to Sherlock, to prove to them both he was able to overcome his sickening bouts of jealousy. 

Instantly, Miss Adler’s face lights up. “Stashed next to the lube,” she breathes, squirming her thighs together. “That’s, well, I won’t be shy, that’s all kinds of delightful. Mr Holmes, I must confess, you probably might not care less, but you _do_ know how to turn on a girl, and make her all happy.”

***

In Auckland Mycroft sits through the four days of meetings, lunches and dinners that are to provide him with the alibi for his trip to New Zealand. After all, even a minor official of the British Government is allowed to combine business with a few days of pleasure. While going through the motions of nodding, smiling and fawning at those around him his mind is busy grinding over the one piece of information Miss Adler’s has managed to dig up for him.

“The second meeting, in Hyde Park,” she’d said. “There was a man, one of those country-squire types, held himself very erect. He threw us this long look. Now I think of it, that stare actually made me shiver, that’s why I must have suppressed the memory. I didn’t look back at him, but I’m sure he was watching us closely. His height was about five feet seven, I’m not too sure. Could have been less, but hidden by the swagger, you know. He was dressed in a wax coat and a cap. Made him stand out from the city crowd. Lord, he was nasty. I wouldn’t have agreed to tie him up to the bedstead.”

A nasty country-squire type approximately five feet seven in height. More than half of Mycroft’s list is filled with men fitting that description. 

She noticed the look of despair that fleeted over his face at his comprehension that this truly was all the information she was able to give him. 

“Mr Holmes,” she said, laying her delicate hand on his where it rested on the table. The skin of her palm was warm and soft, and she tenderly brushed the sparse light hairs on the back of his hand before guiding it to her lips to press a kiss on it. “I’m very sorry I’ve been unable to help you properly. It must be so frustrating to have flown to the back of beyond for nothing. The agony you must be enduring makes my head hurt when I think of it.”

He nodded and, mentally berating himself for his tell-tale tremor of weakness, slipped his hand out of her grip. 

All in all his visit has been a huge failure. Another week wasted away during which he’s done nothing but further reducing his chances of finding Sherlock.

Christmas he spends alone, locked up in his hotel room, working himself steadily through a bottle of whiskey. He misses Sherlock fiercely. With the heavy curtains drawn against the glare of a bright summer day he lolls on the queen size bed, nursing his tumbler and whipping up images of Sherlock in his head. 

The triumphant sparkle in his eyes as he locked them with Mycroft’s across the breakfast table the morning after he’d turned Mycroft’s world topsy-turvy. The pink flush shimmering on his cheekbones when he’d swept into Mycroft’s office, to demand the dismantling of the CCTV-camera installed the day before on the roof of the Montague street house opposite the one where Sherlock dwelled in an attic. A miserable and wet Sherlock – curls plastered to his head, lips quivering from the cold – tapping on the window of Mycroft’s study (to evade security he’d slithered over the ground, his whole front was covered in mud) after spending a day chasing after a gang of drug pushers through windswept streets that were glistening darkly under an onslaught of dismal autumn weather. With the rain beating down upon him Sherlock had loitered outside Mycroft’s gates until he saw them clang shut after Emma. The _stupid twit_. He’dd been unable to stop shivering, even after Mycroft had helped him into the bath he’d prepared him. Afterwards he’d led Sherlock to his bed and they’d made love, so fine, their limbs flowing in the glowing circle of light cast by the bedside lamp. Sherlock’s mouth had kept surging upwards, blindly seeking Mycroft’s, his long legs wrapped tightly around Mycroft’s waist, pulling him closer, ever closer, down to the very core...

Oh God! Inevitably, his left hand wanders down to his crotch, the right one still holding onto the vestige of the whiskey. It offers no protection against the rush of sensual hunger that has crept upon him, along with the memories. Here, on the other side of the world, he’s painfully, ridiculously aroused; aching for contact with his sibling’s flesh. The glass somersaults onto the mattress, soiling the bedding with a wet trail of whiskey on its way to the edge of the bed from which it rolls to land with a thud on the thick carpet. Mycroft starts stroking himself with wild abandon, cupping his testicles with his other hand, willing his fingers to become Sherlock’s – so slender and elegant, and yet surprisingly strong. By pressing the side of his face into the pillow he transforms the dark-grey satin of the cover into a riot of soft curls that whisper over his jaw and lips, and he dips his nose into the fragrant abundance, sniffing and luxuriating in the intoxicating smell. For a brief moment he’s convinced he feels Sherlock’s breath ghosting over his skin, near his collarbone, and he hears the husky voice purring softly, ‘Come for me, Mycroft. Like a good elder brother. Oh yes, beautiful. You’re doing so well. Come on.’

With a choked-back cry of his brother’s name Mycroft spills his seed over his own fingers. His hips rise to crest the waves of the orgasm riding his body – Sherlock bearing down on him, approving, the hand not servicing Mycroft tugging at himself now with furious intensity. Words tumble from his panting lips, ‘Mycroft, my love’ (Mycroft is prepared to swear he said that once), as hot ropes of come spatter Mycroft’s thighs. Oh, _oh_ , he can _feel_ the viscosity of Sherlock’s sperm on his skin, if only he imagines it hard enough – and for a blessed minute Mycroft’s mind shuts down in all-encompassing relief. 

***

Six hours later he boards his plane with a massive headache pounding away at the inside of his skull. A strict regimen of fruit and water extirpates the aftereffects of his reprehensible weakness. Shortly before the plane starts its descent he’s back to his usual self again. In the mirror of the tiny airplane toilet he gazes at the reflection of a slightly aloof man, holding some vague official post somewhere in the civil service. The perfect single Windsor knot of his tie and his impeccable waistcoat – without a crease after the twenty-four hour flight – confirm his utter dullness and reliability to the casual observer. They throw him a look one second, and forget about him the next. As they should.

London blazes brightly beneath its merry attire of Christmas decorations. The streets are bustling with families doing their bit for the struggling economy by splurging in the Boxing Day sales. Thankfully, Anthea is at the office to greet Mycroft with her own bright smile.

“Good work, sir,” she says. “The BIS Minister has already called twice wishing to speak to you. He can’t believe you managed to persuade the Associate Minister for Primary Industries that their sheep farmers will profit from selling their wool at rock-bottom prices to our mills.” The slight twitch of the right-hand corner of her lips expresses her opinion on the BIS Minister’s grasp of economical laws.

Mycroft throws her a grateful smile. Inwardly, he sighs. 

During his long career as a minor official of the British Government he’s had ample time to define a set of minimum requirements any person wishing to serve Her Majesty should bring to the office he or she is appointed to, however humble it may be. Over the years the material the Universities supply him with has shown a steady decline. The scope of general knowledge has narrowed – cynics claim this ignorance is an improvement and term it specialisation – together with a truly frightening drop in the level of discourse. With each new Cabinet the situation worsens. 

Nowadays, whenever Mycroft and his dear old friend indulge in a spot of tea – Nilgiri, with a splash of lemon – he starts his visit with an offer of apologies for the current working conditions. Her Majesty is all benign courtesy, naturally, waving his qualms away with a munificent flick of her wrist. 

Once, however, she confessed the way her Prime Minister held his cup and saucer, combined with the fact that he had no understanding of the political difficulties her father had braved after the War, had a detrimental effect on their weekly talks. Watching benignly as Mycroft wielded the tea service she described to him how she battled the unworthy sentiments that welled up inside her as she endured the stultifying banalities upon which the Prime Minister’s conversation was built, almost wishing – God forgive her – Mr Blair were residing in Downing Street 10 again; for, even though she was perfectly aware of his many faults, he had at least brought a modicum of wit to their meetings. She swept up Holly into her arms and nuzzled the fur of the dog’s head. “You’re not happy with the present one at all, aren’t you?” she whispered into its ear. Lazily, the corgi had shut its eyes to denote its consent. Whether with the statement or the cuddle Mycroft didn’t care to find out. Both, he presumed.

Thus, Mycroft isn’t surprised that the Minister of State of Business and Enterprise appears to be ignorant of the basic rules of capitalism, nor is he too disappointed. 

“I perceive the Minister failed to grasp what we offered them in return. Ask Wilkinson to explain it to him, will you?” he murmurs. “Thank you. Anything else I should be aware off?”

“Apart from the usual gossip and slander, no, not really. The gossip is in the reports on your desk, of course. Also quite a few folders marked ‘TOP SECRET’ arrived.”

“Good. What is it with people that they insist upon acting all important and mysterious?” He wriggles his eyebrows and she rewards his cheekiness with an elaborate shrug of her shoulders. “I trust you’ve enjoyed a pleasant holiday.”

“Yes, sir. I went up to my mother and sister, we had a quiet evening. And sir, thank you for the new phone. It’s lovely.”

Mycroft tips his head down in acknowledgement. “I couldn’t help noticing how you coveted that titbit of technological innovation far too much for your own good.” He chuckles.

“A smart phone is a girl’s best friend, sir,” she retorts, flashing him a smile, while her fingers indulge in stroking the impossibly soft, matte-black leather the manufacturer has crafted around the twenty-first century wizardry at Mycroft’s special behest. “I sincerely appreciate both the gesture and the phone. Frankly, I’ve fallen in love with it.” 

“Hearing you say so makes me appreciate the gift all the more. I realise I’m not the most attentive of men to be working for, Anthea. Yet you put up uncomplainingly with all my demands and the demands of the unofficial office we run here. To be honest, I think the two of us form quite a formidable team. The mobile is nothing but a small token of my gratitude.”

The hand not holding the discussed item flies up to her mouth and she coughs. “That’s good of you to say, sir. Now, I think you really should have a look at the files on your desk.”

In his office Mycroft braces himself against the closed door for a moment, surveying the neatly ordered pillars of drudgery on his desk with a weary eye. The idea of immersing himself in these tedious products of mediocre minds is suddenly terribly nauseating. Right then he is… so heartily sick of it all. Thankfully, his mind intervenes by projecting the undignified scene he cut in that hotel room in Auckland on the inside of his eyeballs. He balls his fists so hard his nails tear at the flesh of his palms and walks the plank to the heaving ocean of his desk to take the plunge and feel the calming waves of duty close above his head. 

For the next five hours he immerses himself in the work of reading whatever his minions have come up with, correcting their mistakes, pondering on the implications of some trivialities they wish to impose on him, and asking Anthea to find him a file or call someone for him. The lamps battling the murky grey of a dismal winter day creeping through the high windows at his back bathe the room in a soft light, restful to his eyes and sparking up flashes of colour in the silk of the rug in front of the sofa whenever his glance strays across it. The faint rumble of traffic in Whitehall provides the continuo to the scratching of his fountain pen and the steady ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece, the same one that once graced his father’s, only two rooms down from Mycroft’s. It chimes the hours simultaneously with its big brother, which stands faithfully guarding the Houses of Parliament a few hundred yards down the road, the deep sound of its bell proclaiming all is well with the world. 

By the time only two stacks out of the original thirteen remain he indulges in a small pause, which he spends staring out of the window. His gaze flits over the sea of umbrellas undulating below, a glistening snake of life, fierce and ignorant in its pursuit of survival against all the odds. Once, more than half a year ago now, he could have imagined Sherlock striding among them, albeit – recalcitrantly – bareheaded, and sneering at the lesser beings encumbering his progress with their onerous umbrellas. His dark cloud of curls would have floated high above the curdling mass of humanity; an easy target for Mycroft’s cameras to detect and reassure him all is well with his world for his brother is in it.

The next pile devours a little more of Mycroft’s time – he spends fifteen minutes straight in brooding over the implications of the Ecuadorian ambassador spotted enjoying a spot of lunch with his Icelandic confrere at the Dorchester three days ago. At long last the structure has been reduced to rubble as well and all is left is the highest stack, composed of the folders marked ‘confidential’.

He scoffs at the first six, delegating them back to Anthea with a note to inform the person or department concerned that branding a file ‘TOP SECRET’ doesn’t magically transmogrify its prosaic subject matter into a document worthy of the British Government’s perusal. 

Thoroughly annoyed he lifts the next folder from the stack. 

‘TOP SECRET’. 

With a heavy sigh, flicking idly at a perceived mote of fluff on his pocket square, he opens the dossier to reveal a tightly packed, plain brown envelope. He reaches for his letter opener and slides it through the thick paper, careful not to damage whatever is inside. After he’s put down the opener again he peers into the envelope and reaches inside. 

His finger pads encounter the glossy surface of a photo print, the top one of a whole deck. He draws the picture out and the next second it flutters from between his suddenly paralysed fingers, and he averts his eyes, quickly, in an instinctive attempt to avoid the horror of the scene depicted in the photograph.

_“Dear God.”_

He doesn’t recognise the voice and yet it must be his, for he’s the only person present in the room. 

***

 

The scowl of hatred and disdain glaring up from beneath the eyebrows. 

That’s what strikes Mycroft as the most unsettling once he’s gathered enough courage to look at the picture again. Not the gag around which the lips are sneering, nor the profusion of bruises blooming on the fair skin. A wave of nausea swells up in his stomach as he grasps the implications of the blood smeared liberally over long, slender thighs, a vibrant background for the delicate wrists shackled in ermine-lined handcuffs. 

_Christ._

His hand grabbles for his handkerchief and he bites down on it to stifle his sobs of horror.

From beneath the neat red hole in the forehead wide-open eyes stare at him, proclaiming their disgust even in death.

***


	11. How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In two strides he’s behind the desk and pulling at the drawer from which the sound emerged. It’s locked. The drawer above it is secured as well. His mind whirrs and clicks into full-mode enquiring function when he discovers the third one he tries doesn’t budge either.

His shaking hand clutches at the envelope and more photographs spill out. Wide-angle shots of the bed on which the body rests on soiled sheets, tarnished with blood, _it’s everywhere_ , excrement and used condoms (‘DNA,’ his mind offers feebly, ‘they left us DNA’, but he already knows it will be useless or they wouldn’t have left them lying about. God, they would have _cleaned_ the body), the room with the smashed up furniture and a jumble of flung-about clothes and empty liquor bottles on the floor. A zoom of the bruises on the chest, of the face with the deep cuts on the cheekbones. Unable to stop the tremors travelling through his body Mycroft keeps sifting through the pictures, only stilling when his hands close on a close-up of the eyes, which will remain open in the perpetual hell of her last hours on Earth.

Miss Adler locks her sightless gaze with his and Mycroft whimpers. 

“I’m sorry.” A gust of air wriggles itself out of his throat. “I’m so sorry.” To his dismay he can feel a single tear leaking out of his right eye. It clings to the ridge of his eyelid for an instant, before starting its slow descent down his cheek.

With a sudden wild desperation he searches through the photos for Kate’s body and finds her, in the guestroom, he recognises the flowery pattern of the wallpaper, bound and gagged and equally abused. Dried snot and tears stain her pretty face, and… Mycroft closes his eyes. _The animals_. No, worse! No beast would willingly inflict such pain on one of its own sort, they lack the capacity for subtle, cunning cruelty that is needed to create such a scene. 

_I dare do all that may become a man; Who dares do more, is none._

Vicious stabs of fear pierce his heart. These are the people that have Sherlock, have had him in their possession for months now. His eyes are drawn inevitably to a shot of the buttocks and thighs of one of the women, and to the streaks of blood spattered over the skin with the raw brutality of an action painting canvas. He doesn’t want to imagine what they might portray.

However, inevitably, on the projection screen of his inner eye each nightmare he’s suffered from since Sherlock’s disappearance pales into a merry fairy tale, adapted by the Disney studios and drawn in their sickeningly sweet palette of happy, nebulously innocent colours. 

_’No, please.’_

_‘Yes, probably.’_

By the time Mycroft regains his self-possession, after a period he roughly estimates to have lasted two and a half minutes straight, his hands have ripped the photograph to shreds.

The next twenty-five seconds he wastes in taking deep breaths. Calm again at last, he searches for the accompanying letter from his man in New Zealand. Mycroft is certain he’s the one who conveyed the photographs to Mycroft, not Mycroft’s enemy. _His_ style is to remain aloofly invisible, and to let Mycroft do the confused stumbling in the dark.

***

When paying them his routine weekly visit Mycroft’s man, Ares, was surprised to find Miss Plain and Kate weren’t waiting for him on the veranda, as they were wont to do. The kitchen door was unlocked, as usual, and Mars had knocked first and then gone in, calling their names to announce his arrival. Pictures one to twenty-six were taken in the kitchen and show the state of upheaval in the generally well-maintained room. Mars made a quick round of the rooms on the ground floor, to discover more smashed-up furniture and large bloodstains on the couch (pictures twenty-seven to ninety-three). Alarmed by now, he went up the stairs and found Miss Plain’s body in the main bedroom (pictures ninety-four to one hundred and sixty-eight) and her companion’s in the guestroom (pictures one hundred and sixty-nine to two hundred and fourteen).

Ares sought assistance and got permission to contact the New Zealand police, who arrived within the hour together with a doctor. Death had occurred approximately twenty-two hours before Ares’ arrival. The police contacted the neighbours by phone. One of them had noticed a Range Rover coming out of the road that led up to the property five days ago. The well-maintained look of the car, more an exception than a rule in these parts, had drawn his attention and the number of the license plate had lodged itself in his head.

The Range Rover turned out to be a rental car, property of Avis. The car had been in heavy demand over the last week. First it had been hired by a British citizen, a Mr Peter D. Wilde – this, obviously, is Mycroft himself but there’s no need for too many people to know that. Shortly after its return three men had walked into the office and asked to hire the very same car. The Avis-assistant had considered that to be a bit odd, but the vehicle was fit for rental again, the men she spoke to were perfectly nice and polite, and business had been slow lately, so she’d gone on, done the paperwork, and handed them the keys. 

Both the passport and the driving license’s copy of the man who’d signed the contract proved his name to be Sherlock Holmes, residing in London, UK. The name was the other odd thing the assistant had noted, but then, these men were British, and, after all, everyone knew some people living in those Isles bore very strange names.

***

His obscure opponent is not only extremely clever, vicious and vindictive, but, it appears, also rather childish. At this flash of insight into his enemy’s character Mycroft allows himself to feel the first flicker of hope. Rather than fanning the tiny spark Mycroft decides to gather it up and store it in the back of his mind to add fuel to it, should he have reason to do so.

***

There is no need for Mycroft to read the rest of the report. Miss Adler had no doubt been surprised to see him return, but descended down the steps of her veranda to bid him welcome again, only to be overpowered by the fake Sherlock Holmes. Task accomplished, the men had driven back to leave car with the hiring agency and to board their plane for Auckland and then onwards to Bangkok, where their trail was lost. 

***

Slowly Mycroft gathers the photographs, stacking them into neat piles before shoving them back into the envelope. To buy himself a few extra seconds he pays a prodigious amount of care to close the flap properly. By the time he’s done, his mind is made up and he reaches for his phone.

“Yes.”

“I have something for you, at the office.”

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft uses the interval to work through the remaining folders on his desk, demoting two dossiers from ‘TOP SECRET’ to ‘RESTRICTED’ and ‘CONFIDENTIAL’ respectively. After some consideration he stashes the last one of the batch in the second drawer on his left and asks Anthea to arrange a meeting with the head of MI5 at short notice. 

The appointment, set for nine a.m. the day after tomorrow, pops up in his inbox five minutes later, simultaneously with the tap on his door, that announces his trusted minion’s arrival.

“Come in,” Mycroft calls, checking for the last time whether the post-it notes he’s put over the murderer’s names on the passport copies are in their proper place.

His employee enters and walks straight up to Mycroft’s desk. About one yard in front of it he halts and stands rigidly at attention, awaiting Mycroft’s orders.

“Thank you for coming over straightaway,” Mycroft drawls with a deliberate air of nonchalance. 

His show of indifference bounces off the habitual mask of impassiveness. “Yes.” 

“I’m sorry to find the results of your investigations have been rather disappointing so far,” continues Mycroft, his hand fluttering in front of the computer screen where the list of the latest results of Zero’s efforts is on display. 

“I’d say Mr Moriarty was attached to his privacy,” comments his minion.

“So it seems,” Mycroft confirms drily. He beckons the man to step a little closer to the desk. “However, I’m convinced we’ve got hold of something at last. Please, have a look at these.”  
Seeking Mycroft’s permission with a slight lift of his left eyebrow Zero picks up one of the passport copies and stares hard at it. The other two he studies with equal thoroughness before replacing them carefully on the desk.

“Would you care to inform me how you came by these?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Mycroft says.

His minion nods, a quick downward jerk of his head. “I see.” He hesitates briefly before adding, “It’s just, I was shown a photograph of these men a few hours ago. They looked a bit different – decidedly less alive – so I wasn’t too sure at first but I’m pretty much convinced they are the same men. The Bangkok police would dearly like to know who they are. Do we have the answer to their question here?” He flicks at a post-it note with his finger.

Inwardly, Mycroft groans. “Much as I would like to help the authorities of a nation whose friendship we wholly appreciate and strive to strengthen constantly, I fear revealing these names wouldn’t help the Thai authorities to properly identify these men as the names in the passports are clearly false, as are the passports. Very convincing fakes though. I’ll have the copies sent to the proper department for analysis. Their findings will be of great assistance to our people in Thames House and the daily endeavours of our allies in Legoland.”

“Yes. Do you mind if…” 

“Please.” Mycroft gestures vaguely in the direction of the sofa. His head is still reeling from the fresh blow dealt by his minion’s disclosure. “How… where were they found?”

“They were gunned down while checking into the Sweety Guesthouse in Khaosan road,” Zero relays in a flat tone. “The bodies were stripped of identification and valuables before their assailants made their escape. That street is packed to the hilt with budget tourists day and night, so they mingled with the crowd and were gone. No use dragging the Chao Praya for their handguns. The Thai must be a fearless race. If anything like this had happened over here, we wouldn’t have been allowed to interview the witnesses for a day at least. The proprietor of the guesthouse, however, was still lucid enough to testify he’d seen a British passport in the hands of one of the victims.”

“Hhhm. A brave man indeed, and extremely helpful. Have one of your men see whether anything else might be pried out of him. In a nice way, of course.” Both to concentrate better and to wipe any hint of distress from his features, Mycroft pinches the bridge of his nose. 

“So my promising trail was wiped out before we could start running after it and the fox is still out in the field, mocking us,” he murmurs. 

They remain silent for what feels like several minutes, Zero staring at shiny tips of the shoes he’s planted side by side on the rug, Mycroft quietly tamping down the waves of nausea and despair that surge wildly in his chest, while pretending to be staring distractedly out of the window.

“Whoever these men were, their life was held cheaply by their employer. This rules out the chance of any of them being acquainted with the people on your list,” Zero offers at last.

A deep sigh starts to shake itself out of Mycroft’s throat but he manages to reduce it to a mere outtake of air, swivelling his chair so he and his employee can lock their gazes over the few metres separating them. “The chances are minimal,” he agrees. “Still, I would be most obliged if you would make use of them during your future interviews, and pay another visit to the persons who’ve already enjoyed the pleasure of your acquaintance.”

He ignores his minion’s raised eyebrows and presses the button to call Anthea into the office.

“Anthea,” he says, handing her the copies. “Please have someone make a photocopy of these.”

“I’ll do it myself, sir. Everyone else has gone home for the evening.”

“Really?” Mycroft shoots a glance at the clock on the mantelpiece and is amazed to discover it nine thirty-seven pm already. The jetlag must be troubling him, without him even being aware of it. 

“Hmmpf, my apologies then,” he begins but her quick fingers pluck the papers from between his. 

“I’ll be back in a sec.” And she is indeed, waving her copies and waltzing out of the room with the heavy load of finished files next.

Mycroft leverages himself out of his chair and walks over towards his employee, who has surged up from the sofa at his approach.

“That will be all,” he says, passing the copies into the man’s outstretched hand. “I look forward to the rest of your reports.”

***

The instant the door falls shut behind his minion’s back, Mycroft buries his face in his hands. The pathetic remains of his tiny flash of hope float on the widening pool of water that has been sloshed over the spark to douse it with brutal efficiency.

What is he fighting against? For in that moment of deepest despair Mycroft is certain he’s locked tight in an impossible wrestling match with an otherworldly creature, except, unlike Jacob, he’s not struggling with an angel, but rather with Lucifer himself. The smell of sulphur flares up in his nose… and he comes to himself again to discover his right hand is shaking to extinguish the match he’s used to light the cigarette – from the emergency packet hidden in the left-hand bottom drawer of his desk – that he must have sought for and stashed between his trembling lips. 

The tobacco has gone off; the packet has lain wasting away untouched for two years straight and yet Mycroft concentrates on pulling the smoke into his lungs, deeply, grateful for the distraction. The dose of nicotine released into his bloodstream, small as it is, is sent travelling up towards his overheated brain to quell the wild flames of despondency burning brightly in their effort to stifle his mind and reduce it to a rubble of barely smouldering embers.

He uses the end of his cigarette to light a new one and pivots the seat of his chair so he can stare out of the window again, into the dense haze of winter fog that has crept up from the river to shroud the city in a blanket of damp. The sound of Big Ben tolling the hour, its gong usually so loud and clear, is but a muffled background to the tinny chime of his father’s clock.

Mycroft huffs and watches as the last light in the building opposite is switched off, refusing to endorse the action with more symbolic significance than it warrants. It is good that civil servants flick off the light upon leaving their building, it saves a lot of energy and hence a lot of money, to be spent on more useful endeavours than lighting offices devoid of life.

Likewise, he shouldn’t let himself fall prone to these unreasonable – unhelpful – bouts of doom and gloom.

His enemy is nothing but a man, or maybe several men, which would almost be something to wish for, for that would lead to the chance of them falling out and turning against each other,  
But no, a man, just a man, _one man_ , a cunning man, but still no more than a man. As is Mycroft. 

A resourceful man, with plenty of resources. An unlimited amount of money to buy people, buy their loyalty, send them to murder other people and to have them murdered in turn. The man with the money is king, for he owns the key to the human heart. Less than a pound of flesh, and yet it truly must be a sweltering pit of foul blackness, considering the low deeds people are willing to commit in order to close their fist around a swathe of crispy banknotes. Over the years Mycroft has found this readiness a very useful weakness to exploit; too bad his opponent appears to harbour even less qualms than Mycroft with regard to the moral aspects of the occupation. The abduction crew, Winshaw, Payne, the fake Sherlock Holmes and his companions, they’d all done their dirty deed in exchange for a handful of daintily crepitating dross.

How… _distasteful_. But still preferable to all those other emotions reigning people’s lives and inducing them to act on sudden impulse, without taking the proper time to consider the effect of their quick decision. Isn’t he, Mycroft Holmes – _the Ice Man_ , _the Automaton_ , _the Machine_ and God knows what other epithets people have seen fit to shower him with – the best example of them all? On a whim he’d gone off to New Zealand, driven by the worst counsellors of all, hope and despair. Instead of ignoring their voices he’d listened to them and it had ended with the women he was duty bound to protect, the women his brother expected him to keep safe, raped and murdered and left to be found in order to mock him, to mock Sherlock. 

Trembling, he lights another cigarette, clinging to the comforting ritual of bringing it up to his lips and flicking off the ash into the waste basket. He most emphatically does _not_ think of Sherlock, resting on his flank next to him, slowly dragging his cigarette past his lips, eyelids shut in obvious pleasure as he pivots his head sideways to blow out a perfectly round ring of smoke. 

Outside the fog has thickened further into a malevolent mass smothering the circles of light thrown by the streetlamps in a feeble last stand against the damp darkness. The street below lies empty, except for a raucous gang of drunken youths making their way down to the river, but their incoherent hollering echoes from the walls of the buildings. Nothing but sound, devoid of meaning. Their shouts are drowned when Big Ben’s bell starts tolling again, its death knell announcing the hour of eleven. 

Mycroft ought to go home, really, and send Anthea on her way as well. They have another busy day ahead of them tomorrow, what with the impending trade-conflict with China, the aftermath of the student protests, the annoying habit of their American allies to attack innocent Pakistani civilians with their drones, the on-going Euro-crisis and the increasingly alarming developments in Russia. And he’ll have to arrange the funerals of Miss Plain and her confidante. The easy solution is to have them interred in a nameless grave in Christchurch, but it would be a disgrace to dispose of her body in such a casual way. The Woman will have a proper English burial, her remains interred in London soil. It’s just… he’s so tired. Sadly, he’s agreed to James’ request for a two-week holiday, and, considering the fact he would be away for the greatest part of that period, told Anthea not to go to the bother of finding a replacement, which means he’ll have to flag down a taxi. The idea is slightly repugnant. Mycroft sighs heavily before swivelling his chair to lock his desk properly – it’s a veritable vault with one disadvantage only: it must be locked by hand – and pushes himself up next to walk over to the built-in closet where he keeps his coat. After donning scarf, coat, gloves and umbrella he picks up his briefcase and makes for the door.

His assistant’s office is empty. For a few seconds he stands foggily surveying the room, surprised by Anthea’s absence. She never leaves her post without saying goodbye when he’s in. However, he was in deep thought just now, maybe she opened his door to wish him a good night and closed it again when she understood he hadn´t noticed her. They´re so close, she must have noted these alarming lapses of his attention that have been troubling him lately. But no, he shakes his head to snap himself out of his stupor, her coat and shawl are on their hook, next to the umbrella stand. Her handbag rests in its usual place on the small cupboard at the back of her desk and her phone, the beautiful new phone she coveted so lies on the desk, neatly aligned with her keyboard.

 _Strange._ But then he stifles his unease with the argument even Anthea has to make use of the bathroom.

A sudden rattle halts his trek across the room towards the corridor. Scanning the room he tries to locate the source and decides on the desk. A phone on silent mode is vibrating in one of the drawers and causing the object lying next to it to jounce against the side. His gaze slides from the bottom of the desk to the top and the mobile perched on the desk. He didn’t know she had…

In two strides he’s behind the desk and pulling at the drawer from which the sound emerged. It’s locked. The drawer above it is secured as well. His mind whirrs and clicks into full-mode enquiring function when he discovers the third one he tries doesn’t budge either. 

Contemplating the possible reasons for Anthea’s wish to lock her desk – most emphatically _not_ a vault, so he hopes she hasn’t stashed a couple of reports that are actually justly labelled ‘TOP SECRET’ in there, but no, she’s smart, she’d never do that – he delves into his inner jacket pocket to whisk up the miniature set of lock picks he always carries on his person.

Like Sherlock, he’s of the opinion that what lies behind locked doors is probably most worthy of investigation and besides, Mycroft doesn’t approve of people presuming he doesn’t have the right to know everything about them. After all, he’s not interested in the sordid details of their shabby little lives, his concern lies with the elements that constitute the bigger picture. 

Sliding the drawer open he discovers it does in fact contain a mobile, a plastic piece of junk that reminds him painfully of the pair he and Sherlock used for their furtive communications. Next to it a lipstick lies, the origin of the noise that alerted him, set rolling by the movement of the phone, together with a spare pair of tights, a tube of hand cream, and, stashed at the back, a ladies gun with an intricate inlay of mother of pearl and silver on the butt.

_…plenty of resources. An unlimited amount of money to buy people, buy their loyalty…_

On instinct he slams the drawer shut but the next instant he wrenches it open again. The terrifying inferences of a cheap plastic phone and a gun in his assistant’s desk send his head spinning and for a second he’s afraid of collapsing onto the floor. Then he extends his hand to pick up the gun. It lies heavy in his palm; he checks the chamber and finds it is indeed loaded. 

_God, no!_ a voice inside his head screeches.

 _But just consider, it explains so much._ He latches onto the words with the fervour of a drowning man who has just had a lifeline thrown in his direction. They were spoken by reason, his faithful mentor. Only once has he ignored its good advice, and his wilfulness let to the loss of the one person in this world he truly loves. He won’t make the same mistake again. 

The next moment both the gun and the mobile are in his pocket. Carefully, he closes the drawer and hurries over to the door of his office. He turns the key and stashes it in a jacket pocket while hastening towards the other side of the room. His back hugs the wall tightly as he hides behind the half-open door to the corridor and waits for his faithful assistant’s return. 

The sound of sharp heels, muffled by the high carpet lining the halls, draws closer and Anthea walks into her office. He throws the door shut behind her and takes a step from the wall, aiming the gun at her head. The loud bang has her whip around in alarm. Her features blur, scrabbling to compose themselves, before giving up upon their hopeless endeavour and crumpling in on themselves with the speed of a Guy Fawkes-figure on which the flames have got a good grip on at last.

“Sir?” she asks, in a last attempt to deny the evidence written on her face.

“Anthea,” Mycroft can feel his throat clenching convulsively as he tries to swallow, but his arm doesn’t waver. “Someone tried to contact you.” He pulls forth the mobile and pushes the button to retrieve the missed call to find the device is locked. This doesn’t surprise him. In the nightmare his life has become everyone and everything conspires to work against his comfort, so a locked phone is just one more strike to take in his stride.

“Oh,” is all she says, and really, what more _can_ she say?

“It was on silent mode, but I’m afraid you were betrayed by one of the seven deadly sins. One should always remember they’re out there to lure us to the base morass of self-love and greed, around the back of morality whose warning words people would rather not hear.”

“Sir, I…” Her voice has been reduced to the mewling noise of a frightened animal.

“Now be so good as to unlock it.”

“It… I can’t do that.” Keeping her eyes locked on a point somewhere in front of his feet, she shakes her head nevertheless.

“Not even when it’s an order?”

Still not looking at him she shakes her head.

“You’re afraid of them. You’re more afraid of them then you are of me, even though I’m the one standing here pointing a gun at your head.”

A quick nod.

“I _will_ kill you.” 

“I know. But… you won’t hurt me. I’m sure.” Quickly, she tips her head up to flick a glance at him, before lowering her eyelids to resume the study of the same patch of floor.

“I understand,” he informs her, tamping down his frustration and struggling to sound composed. “You fear for your mother’s life, of course. You are perfectly aware she won’t suffer directly through my hand from your grievous mistake; the allowance we’re paying her will continue to be transferred into her account until the day she dies. I just want you to realise I _will_ break that code, no matter how. All you’re doing by not giving it to me now is buying your mother some extra time before I will have figured out the code and the man you sold yourself to will send his people after her. Once that happens I will do nothing to stop them. Until that day arrives you’re giving her nothing but worry and anguish over the fate of her daughter. Death might even be a mercy to her.”

“I know.” Her left hand fidgets with the bracelet on her right arm.

“Where is he?” Mycroft decides on another line of enquiry.

She starts, blanches, before stuttering, “I… I don’t know, I really don’t.”

His grip on the gun tightens. “Who’s got him, then?”

“I, sir, please.” Her hands fly up to her face and she hides it briefly before looking up at him again. Her eyes are huge and strangely luminous above her tear-streaked face. “I can’t… besides, oh God,” she starts to laugh, “I don’t know, do I? I’m as much in the dark as you are. All I have is that phone, it was sent to me… after, after…”

“Who’s your contact?” he bites out, frustration mounting in his chest. God, she’s his assistant, she works for him – technically at least and for the few minutes of life remaining to her. She is to provide him with answers, some _damned_ answers at last. He can’t deal with more hindrance and evasion, with this game he’s forced to play, blindfolded and with his hands tied behind his back, only to discover the rules change every time he scores a point. 

“He’s never given me his name,” Anthea cries. Words rush from her mouth. “I only met him once, in the evening, in a park. It was dark and he wore a flat cap pulled into his face so I couldn’t see it.”

“His height, what kind of clothes did he wear, his voice?” 

“I don’t know. Honestly, sir. And if I knew I still wouldn’t dare tell you. Oh, I wish I had never given in… If only they had tried to recruit me at another time, when I wasn’t so angry with you. I’ve been so very angry and hurt, and oh, stupid, I suppose. I don’t even know…”

“How did you find out, what gave us away?” Have they really been that careless for others to have conceived the truth about them? The idea is so frightening his fingers almost fall away from the gun. Thankfully, the explanation she offers has a ring of plausibility to it. 

“The warmth in your voice when you said to send him in, about two years ago, when I announced him. No one else would even have noticed. It’s just, if only…”

“Please don’t,” Mycroft cuts in for he already knows what will follow. Let her retain her dignity at least. The alternative, to have her fall into a gibbering heap at his feet, is too repugnant to contemplate.

“Can you think of anything else that might help me to find him?”

Wordlessly, she shakes her head.

“All right, let’s go,” Mycroft says, craning his head in the direction of her coat. For a brief moment she remains frozen, apparently unable to conceive this is actually happening to her. Then, with drooping shoulders, she starts the journey towards the wall. Mycroft waits silently, he’s got all night.

After she’s donned her shawl and coat and picked up her mobile and her handbag she looks up at him.

“If you’d be so kind as to give me your car keys?” Mycroft asks. She delves them out of her handbag and holds them out to him. “Thank you. Now down to the basement,” Mycroft directs. “We’ll take the back stairs.” He puts the hand holding the gun into his pocket. Belatedly, he puts his umbrella in the stand and sets down his briefcase beside it. No use hauling them around when he will be back here later this same night.

Side by side they walk down the empty corridor. Apart from the night porter manning the reception desk they’re probably the only people left in the building, it never having been a busy day to begin with, thanks to the holiday.

At the door to the cellar Mycroft pauses. “Your car is in its usual place?” he asks.

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. After you, Anthea.” Mycroft unlocks the door and, holding it open for her, shoos her inside.

“Here.” His hand finds the light switch and endless corridors composed of nothing but filing cabinets open up in front of them. “This way.”

They cross the width of the basement to end up in front of a filing cabinet that doesn’t look any different from the ones surrounding it. Mycroft reaches behind a haphazard stack of reports and presses a button. The cabinet swings away to reveal the steep stairs that lie behind it.

“Sir?” Anthea looks up at him. “You want me to go down there?”

“We’ll go together,” Mycroft soothes her. “Besides, even down there we can enjoy the creature comforts of modern life.” He flicks on the light over the stairs. “They’re metal, they might ring a bit,” he warns. 

They descend the stairs past walls painted in a disheartening grey. The third flight ends in another long corridor, done up in the same dismal colour with rows of steel doors on either side.  
“It’s rather a long walk,” Mycroft says. “Last door on your right.”

Like the stairs, the corridor is small, so he walks behind her. This is Zero’s domain. Moriarty resided behind the third door on the left, that short time he was Mycroft’s guest, but he refuses to think of that now. His eyes travel up and down Anthea’s figure, from the glossy mane of her hair down to the loudly clicking high heels. She is his beloved assistant who has served him so well for the past seven years. Rhea, his former assistant, chose her out of the pool of new recruits. “She’s hard-working, serious and sharp,” was her recommendation and while he hadn’t been happy with Rhea’s decision to spend more time with her grandchildren, two girls and a boy, he’d never regretted her choice of her successor. Anthea proved to be all Rhea had predicted her to be, with a sense of wit besides.

“Stupid girl,” he scoffs silently. If he were capable of pity, surely he should feel it now, but his heart is empty, devoid of any emotion, even rage. The girl walking in front of him has aided in the abduction of Sherlock, in the murder of Miss Adler and Kate. Willingly, she’s conveyed her information to a gang of ruthless criminals. The mother of pearl pistol butt is warm from the heat of his hand. He’ll be ruthless himself.

“Here.” She steps aside to let him open the door. The sight of the cell’s interior sends her lower lip trembling. 

“Step inside, please,” Mycroft says and she starts her journey across the whitewashed floor with the drain in the middle, up to the whitewashed wall pock-marked by bullet holes.

“Turn around and look at me.”

Slowly, she pivots on her heels and flicks up her eyes to his, her hands searching for support against the wall behind her back.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says.

“So am I, Anthea.” 

He shoots.

***

Sherlock would be proud of him, surely. No more jabs about him being nothing but a lazy bureaucrat, barely able to heave his buttocks from one chair only to collapse on the next, if he could have witnessed Mycroft in action on this dark December night. First of all he has to stoke up the oven that is locked beyond yet another door. Then he has to drag the dead weight of his assistant’s corpse to the oven and shove it inside. He digs the bullet out of the wall and hoses clean the execution cell while the flames are busy consuming Anthea’s body. The wait until the oven has cooled down sufficiently for him to shovel out the ashes into her handbag feels like hours. He uses part of the time to compose and send a message to Emma, informing her the won’t sleep at home but rather at the office, having found an astonishing amount of work waiting for him on his return. The small room containing the oven is hot and he has to pinch himself repeatedly in order to stay awake after he’s sent his text. At long last he’s ready to leave after checking one more time no one will ever be the wiser as to what happened this night.

The garage contains the biggest challenge in the presence of ever-watchful CCTV cameras. It’s of the essence Mycroft won’t be recorded walking down to Anthea’s car. The chances of the security personnel noticing anything out of the ordinary is far bigger when he’s actually seen walking to her car then when the car just turns up while driving in the field of vision of a different camera. Thus, in order to reach Anthea’s tiny Morris Mini, he has to wriggle over the garage’s dirty floor for about twenty metres while dragging along a large, unwieldy ladies bag. 

Outside, the fog is so thick he can see barely ten metres ahead. He heads for the Embankment, then past Smithfield and on to the A 1203 and the A 102. Past Greenwich he slows down further until he finds what he’s looking for, a jumble of half-rotten clap houses and slowly decaying buildings surrounding a yard stowed to overflowing with decaying boats, cars, tyres, scraps of metal and other less definable junk on the edge of the river. He sits in the car, scanning his surroundings. Nothing stirs in the faint glow of the street lamps. 

Mycroft throws open the door of the car and steps up to the gate surrounding the junkyard. Immediately, out of nowhere, a huge American Pit Bull Terrier sprints up to the gate and starts jumping up against it, barking loudly all the while. Mycroft pulls forth the gun and shoots it, another clean kill.

After picking the lock he drives the car inside, close to a heap of scrap wood. He takes off his glove to feel a few pieces on top of the pile, the wood’s surface is damp form the mist but the pieces beneath those look dry enough. He walks back to pick up the corpse of the dog and opens the boot of the car to stuff it inside, tossing the gun beside it. Standing on the right he discovers a jerry can of petrol. Good girl, Anthea, always prepared for every eventuality, even running out of gas in the middle of London.

He sloshes the interior of the car with the petrol, throwing some over the wood as well. The last drops he uses to cut himself a small trail away from the car. With a sway of his arm he flings the empty can in the direction of the car.

The glare of the blaze nearly blinds him, its heat forcing him into a jog from the premises. He’d chosen his location well, no shouts, no alarms, no sirens, no sign of human life rises up behind him when he walks away. His shoulders slump beneath the weight of his hands. To ease their burden he stashes them into his pocket. Setting his teeth he rolls his shoulders to loosen them and quickens his pace. He’ll have to walk five miles at least before he has a chance of finding himself a taxi to drop him off near Waterloo Bridge. The prospect of spending the night on the lilo in his office isn’t exactly exhilarating, but he’s so dead tired he’s convinced that he’ll be able to sleep anywhere.  
The damp fog sends a shiver down his spine. A drop of water lands on his forehead when he passes a tree. Briefly, he recoils, but the liquid is cold, not warm, so he pushes on. 

God, he’s tired. So very, very tired.

***


	12. Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flicking the tip of his tongue over his lips he contemplates forwarding the text to his own phone so he can study it in more detail. The memory of Sherlock’s computer shutting itself off decides him. This phone was given to Anthea by Mycroft’s enemy, his extremely clever, technologically advanced enemy. The purpose of the phone is to allow Anthea and his enemy to communicate, not to share pictures they can post to Facebook or Tumblr to draw enormous amounts of likes.

Considering the circumstances it is rather fortunate he knows the exact position and range of every CCTV camera in the parking garage. Thus Mycroft muses as he examines the footage from the cameras on his computer. His stealthy progress across the garage, after he let himself in through the side door, hasn’t been recorded, thank God. Now all he has to do is to lock up Anthea’s desk again, set up the lilo, and swap his clothes for the spare suit and shirt and change of underwear he keeps in a handy suit bag for emergency cases (though even Mycroft Holmes, omniscient enabler and visionary couldn’t have foreseen this particular emergency). That suit bag will serve him perfectly fine tomorrow evening to smuggle his dirtied coat and none-too-clean trousers out of the office unseen. Oxfam will be grateful for such quality clothing, even in their currently bedraggled state.

***

To his amazement the dawn finds him relatively fit and well-rested. Upon wakening he blinks several times with his eyelids first, wondering why he isn’t lying in the guestroom bed. He did fly back to England, didn’t he? The next second has him recalling the whole nightmare that constituted his previous day and night. It’s a miracle he managed to catch a wink of sleep at all, yet a glance in the direction of the clock informs him he’s slept for three and a half hours straight, more than enough to help him through the day ahead. The lilo protests with a creak as Mycroft arranges himself on his elbows to think through his situation. 

His busy agenda might actually be a blessing in disguise for it guarantees he won’t be bothered too much by the police during the course of their investigation. One look at his schedule will convince them they’d better not waste the precious time of the man who has to deal with the impending trade-conflict with China with inopportune questions about the disappearance of his PA. Once they’ve grasped he will also have to concern himself with the aftermath of the student protests, the annoying habit of the Americans to attack innocent Pakistani civilians with their drones, the on-going Euro crisis and the increasingly alarming developments in Russia that day, they’re bound to leave him alone. 

Unless he will have to deal with one of those irritating nuisances, of course. A perfect nobody, unsatisfied and unhappy with his lot in life, and grumbling his way through a disappointing career, an equally disappointing marriage and its disastrous issue in the form of two disappointing children. A Jack Russell terrier, glad to finally discover a properly suited ankle in front of its tiny jaws and latching onto the fabric with the demented zeal of the perpetual underdog that’s been biding its time for such an opportunity to grab one of his betters by the ankle and send him sprawling in the mud. 

Whatever the Met will see fit to launch his way, he’ll have to deal with them. Either send them gliding out of his office on the smooth slide of his glib tongue or flying through the door with a firm kick of his hand-lasted shoe. 

Rubbing a hand over his face he heaves a deep sigh before swivelling his legs to the side and pushing himself up from the lilo. Once he’s refreshed and properly attired the day will no doubt take on a less daunting aspect. It´s the night and its promise of less substantial visitors he´d rather wish to avoid.

***

Half an hour later the lilo is stashed in its cupboard again, and Mycroft seats himself behind his desk, freshly shaved and showered and dressed in an immaculately pressed suit cut out of a deliciously soft cashmere in a discreet night-blue, enlivened by an equally understated matte-silver stripe and combined with a shirt the shade of a misty summer dawn. To offset the inconspicuous ensemble he’s decided upon one of his more flashy ties, shimmering silk in a fiery pink grapefruit tint with matching pocket square.

He takes his time to carefully rearrange his desk into the state of disorder that will indicate to a less observant person that he is a man with little time on his hands. Only when he deems the result satisfactory does he press his finger on the phone key that will summon his PA into his office. He waits fifteen seconds before furrowing his brow and pressing the key again, longer this time. To his chagrin he has to wait another thirty seconds for a tentative tap on the door.

“Come in,” he calls and his eyes open wide in surprise when, instead of the expected figure of his assistant, one of _her_ assistants shuffles into the room. The girl flits a glance in his direction once before deciding the tips of her pumps really could do with some intense scrutinising.

“Where’s Anthea?” he enquires of the girl in a pleasant enough tone.

“Sir.” Her fingers are engaged in an intricate game of cat’s cradle; this girl _definitely_ won’t do as Anthea’s successor. “We… sir, we don’t know, sir. She hasn’t arrived yet. We tried to contact her, but she doesn’t answer her phone. We… Miss Penny, Hera that is, said we should send someone to her flat to see whether she’s ill, so we’ve done that, sir. It’s just very strange, Anthea has never called in sick before, but if she were sick she would call, wouldn’t you say so, sir?”

“Hmm, yes,” Mycroft agrees. “How very unfortunate, the poor woman. Now you mention it, she looked like she was walking on her last legs, yesterday evening. I decided to sent her home. The girl must have been working herself too hard lately. Make sure one of our own physicians will visit, and have a nice flower arrangement and a fruit basket sent to her. She likes blue flowers. Might be a bit difficult to find this time of the year, but see what you can do, would you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. Well, in the absence of Anthea, find me Wilkinson, if you please? Also, I spent the night here, seeing as it was so late it would have been a waste of time to go home. Have some breakfast arranged for me. A pot of tea, Prince of Wales, I think, a glass of orange juice and two pieces of toast with some marmalade. No butter. And bring me the papers.”

“Yes, sir. Straightaway, sir.”

He’s just finished flicking through the Financial Times while washing away the last of his toast with a sip of tea when Wilkinson bustles into his room after a brief knock.

“Sir?”

“Wilkinson, all ready to go, I see.”

The young man is practically bouncing on his feet. “Yes, sir. Terribly sorry about the inconvenience, sir. But I will do my best, sir.”

“I don’t doubt it for a moment,” Mycroft tells him. “There’s no need for the apologies as I’m sure you’re not the one responsible for Anthea’s indisposition.” 

His innocent remark starts up a fire beneath the skin stretching over the man’s cheekbones. Interesting. But no, should some inane tabloid ever create an internet poll to have their readers vote for Dullest Civil Servant of the Year, Wilkinson is guaranteed to end at the top of the list. An extremely smart boy – Mycroft still quietly congratulates himself every now and then on snatching him away from under the grasping talons of MI6 – but also one of the most mundane personalities Mycroft has ever met. Engaged to be married to an equally uninspiring girl, and the proud owner of a tiny apartment in the Docklands Area. Mycroft shudders discreetly at the idea. 

However, mundane might serve Mycroft’s needs perfectly fine just now. The boy may be in love with power, but there is little danger of him falling in love with the personification of that attractive state of affairs. He’s eager to learn and will work his fingers to the bone in his desire to serve the uncrowned King of England. Mycroft is all too aware Anthea is, literally, irreplaceable, but Wilkinson might do. No, he will _have_ to do.

“You’ve gone over today’s agenda, I presume.”

“I have, sir,” Wilkinson trips over his toes to assure him. “Sir, I’d like to point out there’s an article on the sharp increase of China’s import of raw commodities on page ten of the Financial Times. Their estimates differ considerably from the official statistics as published last week by the Chinese. I thought this might be important, seeing as…”

“Thank you, Wilkinson,” Mycroft interrupts him. “The FT estimates are more dependable, obviously, they were compiled by our own people. I checked them last week and made sure they were corrected. Our esteemed visitors from China are probably well aware of the fact.” There is a hesitant knock on the door. “Ha, they have arrived," Mycroft exclaims. “On to battle then, Wilkinson, and remember, _fortiter in re, suaviter in modo_.”

“Sir.”

***

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ve rather disturbing news. Anthea didn’t answer her door. We contacted her family but she wasn’t there either. Her mother gave us the phone numbers of some friends, but they couldn’t tell us anything as well. In the end we called Anthea’s mother again and she told us to break into Anthea’s flat. It was empty. So we’ve notified the police. They’re over at the flat now.”

As Mycroft expected, the nervous girl is hovering near his door when Wilkinson and he return from their talk with the Chinese delegation. His face assumes the prescribed expression of genuine worry with an edge of annoyance. He _is_ a constantly harried man after all. His personal assistant should help him to work through his tightly fitted schedule, not mess it up by deciding to go AWOL.

“How odd,” he murmurs, staring at a point slightly to the left of the girl’s head. “This is decidedly unlike Anthea. It’s very good you turned to the police straightaway. Who’s leading the investigation? I want to speak to the officer in charge at the earliest possible moment. Arrange for someone of ours to be sent there to find out whether we can be of assistance.”

“Yes, sir.” The girl scurries off. Mycroft’s eyes follow her departing figure distractedly.

“Sir.” A deferential cough at his right side. “Sir, the Mayor of London expects us in half an hour, sir.”

“Yes, fine. Thank you, Wilkinson,” Mycroft starts and directs a shy smile at his new assistant. “I’m deeply worried about Anthea. Whatever can have happened to her?”

***

The Detective Inspector attached to the case does indeed remind Mycroft of a Jack Russel terrier, albeit one that is properly cowed and trained to sit up and raise its paw, and roll over onto its back at a mere raise of the eyebrows. The instructor responsible for the detective’s affable behaviour turns out to be – improbable as it seems – Sherlock himself. 

DI Dimmock is positively bouncing off the walls in his eagerness to mete out his sincere admiration of Sherlock’s skills to Mycroft, waxing lyrical in his attempts to describe how indebted he is to Sherlock for solving the Chinese trafficking gang case, and his firm opinion that Sherlock wasn’t a fraud. 

Mycroft endures the excruciatingly trite expressions of the detective’s praise with his hands clasped demurely in front of his chest and a thin smile stretching his lips. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs, when the enthusiastic young man falls silent at last, having run the whole gamut of emotions ranging from gratitude to grief at least twice. _Like a yapping dog chasing its own tail._ “Your praise, gratifying as it is, leaves me vaguely bewildered. My personal view of my late brother’s qualities differed greatly from yours; as anyone who had been close to him would confirm easily. But then, who would ever have desired to be close to my younger sibling?”

His words appear to thoroughly bewilder the enterprising detective, resulting in his mouth falling open. 

“Let’s proceed to the business at hand, shall we?” Mycroft attempts to end the unappealing view. “The sudden disappearance of my assistant to whom I am, in fact, rather attached. Have you got any ideas what might have happened? Because, frankly, Anthea not showing up without saying a word in advance is highly unlike her.”

To Mycroft’s relief, the DI’s mouth clamps shut with an almost audible clunk. Mycroft directs an affable gaze at the younger man, waiting patiently for the detective’s opinion on the investigation.

“Well,” Dimmock scrapes his throat. “People do disappear regularly, actually. Stress you know, work-related or more personal, relationships, people just break, and decide to disappear. Out and off of it. Step into their car and start driving. Right now, that seems the most likely explanation. We already know she worked quite hard, the CCTV footage from the garage shows she left the building long after midnight, far past normal working hours and she most likely never got home. So, basically, we’re stumped.” Upon catching the flicker of displeasure on Mycroft’s face, he hastens to add. “We will find her, of course.”

“I most sincerely hope so,” Mycroft sniffs, “for I’m quite _stumped_ without my assistant. Her loss has a more profound impact on government politics than the dissolution of the Cabinet.”

“Sir, we…,” the young detective breaks off as Wilkinson intrudes the room after a deferential knock.

“Wilkinson,” Mycroft drawls, displeasure dripping from his face. “Remind me, did I bid you to enter?”

The young man reddens up to the roots of his hair. The DI throws him a discomfited glance, his cheeks flustering in sympathy. This particular type of predicament is obviously familiar to him. Mycroft quirks his lips inwardly in amusement.

“No… no, sir,” stutters Wilkinson, “but the American ambassador… I reckoned you wouldn’t want to keep His Excellency waiting.”

“That wouldn’t do at all,” Mycroft confirms, “your task however, is to help prepare the meeting, not to remind me of it.” With a bland smile he turns to the police officer. “Did you have anything to add, Detective Inspector? If not, might I suggest for you to start your interviews with Miss Penny. She’s a veritable vault of information on everything that’s going on inside this building. Feel free to contact Wilkinson here should you run into any difficulties or obstructions during the course of your investigation. I need my assistant to be back where she belongs at the earliest possible moment.”

“Yes, sir.” Dimmock manages to refrain from saluting, but it’s a close call. 

After he’s scurried out of the room Mycroft turns to Wilkinson who’s still perched frozen in a corner.

“My sincere apologies for my behaviour just now, Wilkinson,” he says. “Even I’m human after all and I’m sincerely worried over Anthea.”

“Sir,” Wilkinson stammers. “Oh, I do understand, sir. It’s all so highly unusual. It’s just… I’ve already asked Hera to properly instruct me.”

“You’re doing fine, Wilkinson. And you’re showing initiative. That’s even better.”

“Sir.”

Mycroft must send him on a course to help him overcome that unhealthy inclination to flush at the most inappropriate times.

***

During the Euro crisis meeting, dragging on as listlessly and interminably as the crisis itself, Wilkinson tiptoes into the room to deposit a note in front of Mycroft. Grateful for the opportunity to concentrate on something else than the nasally droning figure at the head of the table, Mycroft glances down.

Lestrade will be officially reinstalled next week. The call to inform him of the decision is scheduled for tomorrow. Crumpling the paper Mycroft balls his hand into a fist. Baker Street is secured, Lestrade is secured, even John Watson will no doubt prove amenable to return to the flat, should his former flatmate reside there once more. Now all Mycroft has to do is to go and secure Sherlock.

“…we assume Greece's economy will continue to contract sharply, the country won’t be able to cut its overspending as much as planned, and will ultimately be unable to repay its debts, meaning it will need further help.”

“Yes, but if the rest of Europe is no longer willing to provide it…”

He tunes the irreverent gibberish out in favour of the paper that scratches against his palm.

All he has to do is to secure Sherlock.

_Oh God._

***

All days end, even days that were spawned by a nightmare and drag themselves along at an excruciatingly slow pace through an eternal limbo of waiting for the misery to cease. 

At long, long last Mycroft stands in his own hallway with his own front door secured behind his back. Emma must have left hours ago, but when he turns towards the servant stairs his nose encounters the smell of a savoury beef stew simmering on the stove.

After dropping his briefcase, hanging the suit bag and his coat on the hall rack and stowing his umbrella in the stand, Mycroft descends the stairs and dishes up a hearty plate. Briefly, he considers opening a bottle of wine, before deciding that wouldn’t be wise and settling upon a small bottle of sparkling water instead.

His stomach emits a deep rumble the minute he seats himself at the table. Suddenly, he discovers he’s incredibly hungry. After his meagre breakfast he’s subsided on a diet of coffee and tea, and the night before he’d been too busy to concern himself with the prosaic activity of loading up on carbohydrates. He tucks into the stew with gusto, tearing great hunks of bread from the sourdough loaf Emma has laid out on the table for him. After he’s polished off his plate he dishes up for himself again, and again. To forestall having a grumbling Emma serve him breakfast he also eats the salad she’s prepared him. It’s actually delicious, with walnuts, pears and Blue Wensleydale cheese, one of his favourites. 

A coffee from the infernal machine finishes his meal. 

Upstairs in the hall again he dons his gloves before retrieving the mobile out of the briefcase. Emma has closed the curtains in his study prior to her departure. Mycroft flicks on the desk lamp and positions the phone in the middle of the circle of light. One press of his finger awakes it from its slumber and then he sits brooding over it, the dull sheen of the drab green shell taunting him to find the key that will reveal the contents hidden inside the body. 

_I am [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] locked_

While working himself through the interminable day Mycroft’s thoughts have skimmed over the problem of the code repeatedly. If someone had asked him for the code to Anthea’s phone yesterday, he wouldn’t have hesitated at all before delivering it, thoroughly convinced no one knew his assistant better than he did. 

Now, however, after the events of yesterday evening, he’s less certain. She’s been conducting a life besides being his personal assistant for years, without him being aware of it at all. Since when has he allowed his observational skills to dwindle into reprehensible shoddiness? At what particular moment had he grown so inexplicably fond of her that he’d dropped his usual wariness of people and their motives when looking at his clever Anthea? 

For even if his methods had rubbed off on her – and they must have, she _was_ sharp, that’s why he chose her – he ought to have noticed how she played him along, smiling and nodding at him over the top of her Blackberry, while all the time she was informing his enemy of his every move through the ominous green piece of technology that now sits blinking up at him.

_”Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.”_

The echo of Sherlock’s words to Miss Adler, delivered in his melodious, low baritone, vibrates in Mycroft’s head. How true they are. Christ, he’s been so irresponsible, letting sentiment get the better of him, and he dares not think of what he might have lost by his maudlin fatuousness. Placing his trust in others, depending on their loyalty…

With a groan Mycroft presses the heel of his palms hard into his eyes. This whole whirl of recrimination and loathing and – God forbid – self-pity is, in effect, nothing but unworthy, mawkish emotion that he ought to squish – right now.

_Sherlock._

Right now, for Sherlock’s sake!

Resolutely, Mycroft directs his attention to the mobile again. He’s almost one hundred per cent sure he’s figured out the right password, and yet a vague uneasiness tugging at the back of his mind keeps him from picking up the phone and entering the code now he’s laid it out in front of him at last. The thing is so… squat and plain ugly. Would Anthea, that effortlessly elegant and fashion-conscious woman, have gone into a shop and voluntarily selected a piece this hideous and devoid of aesthetic pleasure? 

Surely not. Suddenly the phone takes on an even more menacing aspect. She didn’t choose the phone, it was forced upon her, given to her or sent with instructions she’d have to follow, painstakingly; an object to communicate and to control. One wrong move and the thing will explode.

_I am [ ] [ ] [ ] [ ] locked_

Of course! Since _he_ gave it to her, whoever _he_ may be, the code to the phone wasn’t thought up by Anthea. His enemy is a sadist who’s been toying with him, so he wouldn’t be above tormenting the people who’d willingly turned to him for money, revenge, a craving for power, or as a means of fulfilling their spontaneous desire to hurt the object of their spurned desire by causing harm to what he holds most dear. 

Every time she needed to unlock the phone, she would have had to complete the hated name of the bane of her life and have it stare up at her, mocking her. For the briefest of moments Mycroft almost feels pity for her. Not for long, however. The next second he’s pulled the phone towards him and is pounding the buttons…

S H E R

… to reveal the menu. Mycroft sits stunned for an instant, a sob of relief struggling in his throat. At last, something he can use. Oh please, dear God, let him find something, the smallest indication of Sherlock’s whereabouts, whether he’s still alive or…

His thumb, which is scrolling quickly through the call history – blocked numbers, all of them, but Zero’s people will have unblocked them in no time, how could Anthea have been so careless? Has she deleted other calls? He’ll have to think about that later – encounters a text message.

 _a little present to cheer you up_ he reads while his thumb is already opening the enclosed picture and there is Sherlock, sluggishly staring at the photographer out of pupils reduced to the tiniest pinpoint – drugged to the hilt on some opiate – and attempting to twist his head away from the hand fisted in his hair. Shocked, Mycroft nearly lets the phone drop.

The next second he’s frantically zooming out the photo on the mobile’s tiny screen, instructing himself to remain calm and composed as he sits squinting at the picture to engrave in his mind every single detail it will give him.

Sherlock is sitting, or slumping rather, in a metal chair that’s bolted to a – concrete? reinforced? – floor, wearing nothing but a pair of incredibly filthy trousers from which his feet protrude naked and vulnerable, his ankles chained to the legs of the chair by a pair of thick steel cuffs.

His upper body is covered in lashes and bruises that stand out angry and sharp against the white skin stretched taut over his ribcage. He’s so pathetically thin Mycroft can count his ribs – and here he’s just stuffed himself to bursting with a disgustingly good meal! It’s impossible to decide what must be worst: the cold and the damp – for Mycroft can see the floor is weeping moisture – the pangs of hunger, the deliberately inflicted pain, or the drugs they must be feeding Sherlock.

_It’s dark and dank, that’s all I can tell you._

Sherlock had spoken to Mycroft then, in the cemetery, had urged him to come to his rescue. Devastated, Mycroft shakes his head. And this has been going on for months! Mycroft shakes his head again, slowly and deliberately. No matter, Sherlock is _alive_ – that’s what’s all important – or at least he was nearly three weeks ago when this photograph was taken and sent to Anthea as _a little present to cheer you up_. Had it cheered her up, had she gloated over this picture of a humiliated, tortured Sherlock? 

With a deliberate push of his hand Mycroft bangs shut the gates that give access to that particular winding walkway of his imagination. Anthea is dead, extinguished, already forgotten and replaced by Wilkinson. Mycroft will rechristen the boy Hermes, no doubt the name will help to transform him into the epitome of diplomacy and trickery. Anthea’s feelings upon receiving the text are of no consequence to him, or to Sherlock, and frankly, right now Mycroft doesn’t care about the world at large.

Flicking the tip of his tongue over his lips he contemplates forwarding the text to his own phone so he can study it in more detail. The memory of Sherlock’s computer shutting itself off decides him. This phone was given to Anthea by Mycroft’s enemy, his extremely clever, technologically advanced enemy. The purpose of the phone is to allow Anthea and his enemy to communicate, not to share pictures they can post to Facebook or Tumblr to draw enormous amounts of likes and get reblogged with fangirling squee.

God knows what will happen when he forwards the text. For all he knows the mobile might _explode_ right in his face. In fact, he’s already living on borrowed time. Anthea didn’t answer the call yesterday and they might try to contact her again… any minute.

Firmly, Mycroft deletes the text before scrolling through the rest of the history. Next he checks the phone book, which is – unsurprisingly – depressingly empty of content, before reaching for his own phone.

“Yes.”

“I received a gift this evening. Hopefully this will actually lead to something. Please come and collect it. I’m at home.”

“I’ll be with you in half an hour.”

“Fine.”

Mycroft ends the call, picks up Anthea’s phone and carries it down to the kitchen. There he sets about cleaning it meticulously, holding it up to the light to check for any traces of residue of oils or particles of skin. When he’s sure it’s thoroughly cleaned he makes his way upstairs again. From a desk drawer he selects a non-descript yellow envelope. He inserts the phone and closes it. 

Outside he lets the envelope flutter into a small puddle next to the path to the front door, pushing it about a bit with the aid of the tip of his umbrella. He picks up the dampened paper and ambles to the letterbox next to the gate to push the envelope in and out through the slot several times. Inside again he peruses the envelope through narrowed eyes. Its bedraggled and creased state makes it highly believable that it’s been dragged halfway across the country to worm its way into Mycroft Holmes’ letterbox.

After shedding his gloves Mycroft opens the envelope, takes out the phone and stares down at it in wonder. Then he hurries into his study to lay them out on the desk. He’s just done unpicking the labels out of the suit and coat destined for Oxfam and stashing them into a plastic bag, when the doorbell rings.

***


	13. What dost thou know me for?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "And the name is?” His fingers have tightened themselves into a steel bracelet around the fragile writing instrument. Carefully, he relaxes his fist to prevent himself from snapping the pen in half. In that moment, he’s deeply grateful for the fact that he’s alone in his room without anyone to register the emotions flickering over his face.

“Good morning, sir,” Wilkinson welcomes Mycroft when he strides into the anteroom.

“Thank you, Wilkinson. Another busy day awaits us. Are you looking forward to it?” Mycroft enquires.

“Yes, sir. I’ve prepared everything and you’ll find the folders on your desk, sir.”

“Wonderful,” Mycroft praises his new assistant. On the threshold of the door to his room he pauses and turns towards the boy with an absent-minded air. “Have you heard anything from that police officer yet? What was his name… Timnock or...”

“DI Dimmock, sir. No, sir. He hasn’t contacted us, sir.”

“Be so good as to call him for a summary of his investigation, a concise one preferably. Tell him I expect a daily update. Surely, that’s not too much to ask, considering it’s my personal assistant that went missing.”

“No, sir. Definitely not, sir.”

“Fine. Oh… and Wilkinson…”

“Yes, sir.”

“Please, try to adopt a more laidback attitude with regard to the ‘sirs’.”

“Yes, sir.” A flush of the most intense beetroot red overtakes Wilkinson’s cheeks. “Oh, damn,” he yelps, “my sincere apologies, sir.”

Mycroft sighs. “No matter,” he murmurs. “You’ll have another chance when you bring me this morning’s post.” And with those words he seeks refuge in his room.

***

After flitting through a sensationalised account of the great fire that gutted a range of run-down dockyards in Woolwich, Mycroft lays the papers aside to immerse himself in the intricacies of the latest Indian election results. Just when he’s acquired the desired state of abstracted, prerequisite purpose, the phone on his desk commences to ring insistently. 

Unable to control the inadvertent swerve of his eyes, Mycroft glances at the clock. It’s hardly likely Zero will have uncovered a name so soon. Not a mere eleven hours after receiving the mobile out of Mycroft’s hands. Prudently, Mycroft has counted on three days at least before Zero will contact him with any results. Three long days during which Mycroft can do nothing but wait. However, he’s already waited for so long, what are a mere three days after all these months of perplexity and wretchedness. Except that now he knows for certain that Sherlock is suffering at the hands of his captors. Sherlock, his Sherlock, his little brother, his _darling_ , the one person on this earth he loves more than he loves himself...

_Stop this!_

“Wilkinson,” Mycroft picks up the receiver, his tone affable.

“Mr Holmes. A Mr Lestrade would like to speak with you.”

“Ah, excellent, connect him through, would you? And Wilkinson…”

“Yes.”

“Well done, I’d say”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Detective Inspector, how may I help you?” Mycroft greets the DI, ignoring the anguished squeak that erupts in the anteroom. 

“Mr Holmes,” Lestrade returns the greeting. “I rang to tell you I’m done here. Nothing new has come up, that is, nothing I’d say would be of any use to you. At least everything is properly filed now.”

“Ah, that’s good,” replies Mycroft. “And yet, what an extremely disappointing outcome. I do hope you won’t look back upon this particular undertaking as a huge waste of your ingenuity and energy, Detective Inspector.”

On the other side of the line Lestrade sighs in exasperation. “Actually, I kept expecting something definite would float up, but if it did, I missed it. If only Sherlock were here to take a look at the stuff, a proper look. From the way some articles were organised I got the idea he’d been working on it, shortly before he died. But everything was a madhouse then, so no wonder he didn’t come up with a clue… and now… it’s never going to happen, is it?”

“No,” Mycroft admits.

“It’s like he’d collected a bloody sweetshop of crime,” the brave DI saunters on. “There’s quite a few cold cases I’d like to tackle after having read Sherlock’s ideas on them.” His voice takes on a hue of reverent awe. “I’ve even found notes on some of the cases I took on as a youngster and which had me flabbergasted, and Christ… I was there at the crime scene, and all he did was read a newspaper article that was bloody useless – all sensationalism, you know – and looking at it through his eyes it’s all so obvious, the answers had been staring me right in the face but I failed to see them. Fuck, I kept hearing his voice, telling me I’m an idiot.”

“My brother could be very rude. My apologies.”

“What for?” Lestrade laughs, short and wry. “I _was_ an idiot. But, like I said, I’m done here. You’ll find everything neatly ordered if you’d like to have a look at it yourself and I’ve jotted down some notes that might be of help to you. I’ll send them over and then I’ll put myself out on the pasture. Would you like me to leave the key with Mrs Hudson?”

“Unless Mrs Hudson told you different, I suggest you keep the key, Detective Inspector. You have my complete trust and free access to those files might come in handy to you in the future.”

Lestrade’s answer is a disbelieving snort. “After I’ve been given my walking papers the Yard won’t want to make use of my services as a private detective.”

“Take heart, Detective Inspector. The Met gives employ to few people who are at least moderately up to their task, even in the ranks above yours. My brother had many faults but he was an adroit detective and he spoke highly of your skills.”

“Yeah, the best of a bad lot. I know.”

Involuntarily, Mycroft smiles. “Our dear mother despaired of his manners on a regular basis,” he informs the detective.

Another snort, but now it’s one of sincere amusement. “He must have been a handful. Anyway, I’ll be off now. Just wanted to thank you for keeping me occupied the past few weeks.”

“The pleasure was mine entirely, Detective Inspector. Thank you very much for your endeavours on behalf of clearing Sherlock’s name and solving the mystery of his death. Please be so kind to contact me in the future, should an occasion arise that will allow me to return the favour.”

They ring off and Mycroft sits staring at the telephone for a while after he’s replaced the receiver. If only it would sound now.

Three days at the most. He’ll have to be patient. Only three more days.

***

Like the dutiful civil servant he is, Mycroft makes good use of his time to prepare for an impromptu absence that might last several days. The next morning he puts Wilkinson to the test by going for a long walk along the embankment without notifying his assistant first. His illicit outing has a vaguely unsettling effect on his conscience. He almost catches himself looking over his shoulder a few times, as if he were a schoolboy who has decided to forego his lessons and has suddenly realised his parents will be informed by the Headmaster. 

A watery sun attempts to burn off the mist hanging over the river, while sparkling on the slowly revolving glass cabins of the London Eye. In the inside pocket of his coat his phone keeps buzzing, but every time Mycroft looks at the screen he finds it’s Wilkinson, no doubt working very hard at keeping the mounting panic at bay, and, judging from the tone of his texts, actually succeeding, if barely. 

At Somerset House Mycroft dawdles in the courtyard, and merges with the merry public watching, applauding and laughing at the antics of the skaters on the ice rink. One pair of skaters stands out from the rest, a boy and a girl, svelte and long-legged, gliding over the ice with effortless elegance through a series of intricate twists and turns. With a practised flourish they round off their performance, bowing to the admiring audience that rewards their demonstration with shrieking whistles and catcalls. The boy sports a hideous Christmas-green jumper with a pattern of cavorting reindeers and a pair of jeans, but his graceful figure and the dark curls peeking out from beneath his red woollen hat remind Mycroft painfully of Sherlock, forcing him to avert his gaze as the happily chattering pair ambles past him on their way to the skate lounge for a well-earned mug of hot chocolate.

Abruptly, Mycroft decides he’s played truant for long enough and he pivots on his heel to return to his call of duty.

The mobile rests warm and snug against his chest. While walking Mycroft concentrates on the feeble warmth of the sun caressing his back and the top of his head, where his hair is blown astray by the playful breeze. The wind whips up the river surface into choppy waves with diamond droplets glinting in their crests. Around him the city hums contentedly, the eternal ribbon of traffic glides along the A32111, while ahead of him a double-decker traverses Westminster Bridge in front of the spectacular backdrop of the Houses of Parliament rising from the river.

If only Zero would phone right this instant to give Mycroft a name, a clue. That’s all he asks. Anything to end this state of perpetual inactivity, this vexatious limbo forced upon his limbs. Slaloming around a group of Japanese tourists enraptured by their tour guide’s elaborations on London’s fascinating history, Mycroft can feel his hand moving up towards his breast pocket to latch onto his phone, managing to halt its progress just in time. 

He’ll wait. Two more days, he’ll live through those. A mere two more days.

He’ll wait.

***

“… to think so. You’re doing fine, Wilkinson. Of course he’s short-tempered. You know as well as all of us he and Anthea are thick as thieves, and he must be worried about her disappearing like that. Not that he’d ever give an inkling. But we all think you’re doing remarkably well. It will be a boost to your career, he’s bound to recommend you to the…”

“Enjoying the pep talk, Wilkinson?” Mycroft strides into the anteroom at the precise moment Hera’s hand has landed on Wilkinson’s shoulder in a comforting pat. “You should heed every word she’s said to you. I do miss Anthea dreadfully – has that Dimmock fellow already informed you of his progress today? – but I’m most sincerely grateful for all the assistance you’re giving me in her absence.”

Wilkinson has jumped out of his chair at Mycroft’s entrance and now stands battling the fierce blush of happiness that has spread over his face. “Sir,” he stammers.

“Let me give you an example,” Mycroft elaborates, gesturing for the boy to sit down again. “The way you handled that rather impertinent demand from our beloved Cheltenham associates yesterday was close to perfection. Anthea herself would have been hard put to outdo your performance. Your immediate grasp of the problem and your solution showed great accomplishment.”

“See?” Hera puts in her penny.

“Exactly,” Mycroft smiles affably at them both. 

“Sir,” Wilkinson gathers his courage. “Thank you, sir. And sir, I’ve compiled… here’s a list of the calls you missed. I’ve added my answers. I think you only need to call two persons straightaway. Also, Detective Inspector Dimmock did indeed leave a message for you. They’re trying to contact two of her friends who are living abroad, one in Amsterdam, the other in Vienna. Apparently, they think she may have used one of her aliases to leave the country.”

“I see,” Mycroft hums. “Did you give him the list with her aliases and the passport numbers?”

“Yes, of course, sir.”

“Good. That’s good. Somehow the idea of Anthea fleeing the country all of a sudden strikes me as highly unlikely. Still, they are the experts. We will do anything we can to help the police.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Fine. For now I propose you let me talk you through the recent developments in Brussels. They’re preparing to rap us on the knuckles, but they’ll be in for a nasty surprise if I have any say in the matter.”

***

The third day is already drawing to a close, and Mycroft has just reinstalled himself behind his desk after his weekly talk with the Prime Minister, when his mobile rings. 

“What do you have?” he greets his minion.

“His name was near the bottom of your list,” Zero answers him. “We would have got down to him eventually. Not a nice bloke according to the testimonies.”

“So I’d imagined,” Mycroft remarks drily, toying with his fountain pen to steady his nerves.

“Yes.” Zero pauses briefly before continuing. “By chance we managed to get hold of the men who deposited James Moriarty’s corpse in your garden as well. They confirmed the name for us.”

“And the name is?” His fingers have tightened themselves into a steel bracelet around the fragile writing instrument. Carefully, he relaxes his fist to prevent himself from snapping the pen in half. In that moment, he’s deeply grateful for the fact that he’s alone in his room without anyone to register the emotions flickering over his face.

Zero’s answer is swift and brief. “Sebastian Moran.”

***

With slow deliberateness Mycroft arranges the pen on the desk, aligning it neatly with the lamp and the small stack of folders perching on the right.

Sebastian Moran. Colonel Sebastian Moran. That miserable army pimp and extortioner. That lazy country squire. Is it possible that such a man is his formidable enemy? For an instant, Mycroft refuses to believe what his trusted minion has come up with. Is everyone deceiving him? Anthea first and now Zero as well?

He lets go of the pen and stares down at his hand, clenching his fist and then slowly loosening his fingers again. The sight of this same hand wet from the water spurting over it flashes up in front of his eyes and he’s transported back to the toilet where he kept washing his hands in a vain attempt to clean them from the contamination of Moran’s presence. The man might have held nothing but a moderate army rank, but his body had been a drum of narrowly-controlled danger. He’d sat staring at Mycroft with a grin on his face, as quietly confident as a great white shark cruising the waters it controls, in the secure knowledge of the deadly fear it inspires in every creature that has the misfortune to pass its way.  
A mere colonel, but, by stripping him of his insignia Mycroft has fashioned a monster, rising from the deep to seek his revenge on his creator. For, should Mycroft have chosen to slant his gaze and not dig out the cancer that were Moran and his cronies, he would now be quietly festering inside the army, spreading the rot, not caring one whit about Mycroft Holmes and his younger brother.

“Sebastian Moran,” he hears himself repeat in a dazed voice.

“Yes.” On the other end of the line the man is as unmoved and steady as ever.

“But how… he was under surveillance… he…”

“Yes,” his minion cuts in. “He’s a nasty bugger, and smart, knows how to bide his time. From what we’ve gathered the man bears you a grudge of enormous… excuse me…” his voice falls away and Mycroft snatches bits of a fierce whispered conversation, “my apologies. Someone just came up with a very interesting list of bank accounts. He’s definitely the man you’re looking for. His business is conducted from an office in Canary Wharf, but he never shows up there, apparently. He resides…” 

“On his estate in Wasdale,” Mycroft completes the sentence for him and for the briefest of moments his eyelids flutter closed and he steps back into his dream from months ago.

_The car glides along the rim of the lake. Undulating waves that spill themselves over the sand lap gently at the border, painting an ever-shifting pattern of ripples. The high moon bathes the great bowl of water in a silvery light, standing out against the dark shapes of the surrounding hills._

_Ahead of them the road unfurls itself in the stark beam of the front lights, cutting their way through the night surrounding them. The gentle sway of the vehicle informs Mycroft they’ve rounded another curve and then – unexpectedly – the car draws to a halt._

_Mycroft’s eyes detect a high garden wall covered with dark ivy. Set into the wall is a small wooden door, no wider than a sliver of eye seen between half-closed lids._

“Yes,” confirms Zero.

His dream had shown Mycroft where to search for Sherlock, a bright light guiding him unerringly through the terrifying gloom of the nightmare that had swept over his days. Instead of paying attention to the council of his instinct, he’d preferred to plod through the darkness along meandering pathways laid out by his mind – always searching for the clever option, because he was wilful and _plain stupid_ – ignoring the resonance of his heart, beating the code that would lead him to Sherlock’s prison and unlock the door to deliver him into the safety of Mycroft’s embrace. Through his arrogance he has added months to Sherlock’s suffering, perhaps caused irreversible damage. On cue his diligent mind retrieves the picture of Sherlock – Anthea’s little present – and reveals a detailed view of the lashes and bruises glowing on the white skin stretched taut over Sherlock’s ribcage. He doesn’t dare imagine what must be the state of Sherlock’s mind, hidden behind the pinpoints of his drugged pupils. 

“Fine.” To his amazement Mycroft finds his voice is perfectly steady. “I expect your full report on my desk in twelve hours.”

“Yes.”

“And….” Mycroft hesitates, debating whether his next words could be interpreted as a show of inexcusable weakness on his part, and suddenly decides that he doesn’t care. “Thank you.” 

“Do you want me to apprehend him?”

“No. Is he aware of our interest?”

“He must be wondering why no one is answering his calls, but otherwise, highly unlikely. By the way, I ordered the phone to be dismantled once we’d ripped everything of use from it. The idea of sacrificing my people to a criminal’s fancy didn’t appeal to me. A highly advanced and ingenious little bomb it proved to be. You will find a full specification in the report.”

“The safety of our own people comes first and foremost,” Mycroft agrees. “That will be all for now.”

“Yes.”

After Mycroft has pressed the button to disconnect the call he remains seated as quiet as a statue for several moments. On the mantelpiece the clock starts to chime. He counts the strikes – five – and rubs his hands over his face. The next instant his forefinger is on the phone key to summon Wilkinson into his room. 

The boy rushes in after a short knock. “Sir?”

“Wilkinson, you’d better sit down.” Mycroft gestures towards the chair in front of his desk. With awkward grace the young man seats himself on the edge, pen and paper at the ready for Mycroft’s instructions. Over the temple Mycroft has built out of his fingers in front of his mouth he looks hard at Wilkinson until the colour clouding his assistant’s cheeks obliges him to slant his gaze down to the fountain pen on top of the desk.

“I need you to brace yourself, Wilkinson,” he starts. “Over the past few days you’ve proven your worth to this office, the government, to the marvellous idea that is England and everything she stands for.”

Wilkinson’s Adams apple visibly bobs in his throat. “Sir,” he begins.

“You’re a smart young man, Wilkinson, the cream of the crop. I reckon you’re at least as clever as Anthea and brighter than the whole of the current Cabinet combined. This is no idle flattery, but the truth. I don’t flatter, you see, that’s the prerogative of the precious few that may visit me here.”

A smirk whisks over Wilkinson’s face, his gaze flits over towards Mycroft and back down to the notepad on his lap again.

“Some people would be daunted by what I’m going to ask of you, but I know you won’t,” continues Mycroft. As expected Wilkinson raises his head. Mycroft nods for him to speak.

“What were you going to ask me then?” the boy says, swallowing the sir.

“Not much,” Mycroft assures him. “An urgent business of a private nature has arisen that needs to be dealt with quickly. It might take several days, I’m not too sure. Someone will have to man this office in the meantime. Naturally, I thought of you.”

“Sir,” the young man shrieks and bolts out of his chair, launching his notepad and pen across the room in a flurry of paper. “Sir, no, I can’t, how…”

“Sit down, Wilkinson,” Mycroft commands. Wilkinson ignores his immediate wish to gather his utensils before perching on the chair once more, not daring to look at Mycroft.

“Look at me,” Mycroft urges his assistant. After a slight hesitation Wilkinson complies. “Believe me, I’m as unhappy with the current state of affairs as you so obviously are. However, it can’t be helped. I must be away and hence you must be here. You can of course call me whenever you consider it necessary. However, I’m convinced you’ll be able to do the trick. Restructuring my agenda will prove to be your biggest challenge. We’re actually in luck. The holidays have brought everything to a standstill. I suggest we treat this inconvenience as a test. One that might be highly useful to both of us.”

“Yes, sir,” Wilkinson mumbles, properly chastised. “My sincere apologies for panicking. It was inappropriate.”

“Maybe, but also understandable, considering the circumstances. I’m aware of the enormity of my question, Wilkinson. Normally, I wouldn’t have asked you, but my hand is forced. I place my trust in you. Please don’t abuse it.”

“I won’t, sir. I’ll serve you to the best of my abilities.” The boy’s voice is thick with emotion. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft shoots him a look. The white of the man’s eyeballs is slightly reddened? Oh, _glorious_ , a true patriot. Queen and Country before everything. Well, even Mycroft has been young once, though in this moment he can’t remember what it was like, to be so eager, so full of ideals for a better world. Wilkinson will have to do.

“Which are considerable,” Mycroft beams at his assistant. “Thank you, Wilkinson. I knew I could count on you. Now let’s go over that agenda together, shall we?”

***

Three and a half hours later Mycroft waits until the taillights of the car have dissolved into the mist before turning and walking up to his front door. 

In his study he scribbles Emma a note to inform her of his unexpected absence and remind her to ask for Wilkinson and not Anthea, should she need to contact the office.

Upstairs he throws a random assortment of clothing into a suitcase, together with his wash bag. He lifts the keys of his car and the Holmes manor from the rack in the hallway, locks up the house and hurries over towards the garage.

He hasn’t driven the Jaguar in ages. Gently, reacquainting himself with the car, he navigates it through the gates and onto the road. The street lies deserted. Mycroft turns the steering wheel and sets off in the direction of Battersea.

***


	14. Come, let's away to prison

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’d say you’ve gone completely off your rocker, except I think that already happened a long time ago. You conducted his funeral, remember? There is a grave I visit every week, although you probably know all about that. No doubt you spotted me on one of your ghastly cameras.”
> 
> “There is a grave, yes, but it doesn’t contain Sherlock’s remains.”
> 
> “Care to tell me what’s in it then?”
> 
> Mycroft directs an even gaze at John before replying. “Thirty-one packs of St Bart’s printing paper.”

The flat John rents looks respectable enough, the ground floor of a sprawling Victorian semi near Wandsworth Common. Bright light filters through a crack in the curtains, evidence that the doctor is, indeed, at home and has refrained from spending New Year’s Eve in one of London’s pubs.

After parking the car Mycroft remains seated for several seconds to observe the front window of John’s house, standing out against the darkness of the surrounding walls. The neighbours on the first and second floor aren’t in, but those in the other half of the semi are.

Mycroft sighs. He’s dawdling, delaying the moment he will have to confront John, and, now that he’s acquainted with Sherlock’s plight – which is all Mycroft’s fault – any minute lost to Mycroft’s fears and apprehensions, is inexcusable.

The door handle is cold in his hand. Quickly, he slams the car door shut and marches up the garden path to the front door. The sound of the bell clamours through the house. With his hands deep in his coat pockets Mycroft waits. His ears perk up when they detect a noise in the corridor on the other side of the door. Someone is approaching with the aid of a crutch, the thud as it hits the floor louder than the soft pad of the hesitant feet accompanying it. A crippled war veteran, invalided out of the army.

The door opens and John’s kind face peers out into the dark. Upon catching sight of his visitor his features harden.

“Mycroft,” he grits out.

“John,” Mycroft greets him.

“What are you doing here?” John ventures next, in genuine puzzlement, but then his face sets itself again and he starts pushing the door shut. “Go away. I don’t want to speak with you.”

As Mycroft has anticipated this reaction he’s already put his foot on the threshold. John pushes some more and Mycroft winces, but keeps his foot wedged firmly between the post and the door. Brimming with indignation, John glowers up at him.

“Your foot is in the way.” He’s so furious he nearly chokes on the words.

“Yes,” Mycroft admits. “It is. Please, John, let me in. We really need to talk.”

“No, we don’t. At least, I don’t, and your needs are of no interest to me. You can remain standing here if you want to, while I go and call the police.” Wielding his cane John makes to turn around.

Behind him there’s a movement, a gust of warmth, as a woman enters the corridor, closing the door to the living room behind her.

“Who is it, John?” she asks. Her voice is pleasant, a cultured soprano.

“Nothing,” John hisses.

“Miss Morstan,” Mycroft addresses her. “Please help me talk some sense into Dr Watson and convince him to let me enter the house.”

“What?” Her hands flutter up towards her throat with the graceful elegance of two white turtledoves. “How do you know my name? Who are you?”

“He knows your name because he’s bloody Mycroft Holmes,” growls John. “The man who controls every fucking CCTV camera in London.”

“What are you saying? Holmes? Is he family of Sherlock then? Of your best friend? John, you should let him in,” Miss Morstan exclaims, drawing nearer, launching the doves in an another upward movement.

“Thank you, Miss Morstan,” Mycroft pounces on her words. “I am indeed Sherlock’s brother and I do need to speak to Dr Watson. It might be a matter of life and death.”

“John!” Miss Morstan’s dainty fingers are on John’s arms, imploring him to heed her.

“You traitor, how dare you?” John growls at Mycroft. Fiercely, he spins around and addresses Miss Morstan. “Let’s go back inside, Mary. You don’t know him, he’s a coward and a traitor and he sold his own brother. Don’t defend him; you’re too good for him.”

Miss Morstan winces briefly, but stands her ground. “John, listen to me,” she pleads, the words tumbling form her lips in quick succession. “I… darling, I feel for your grief, I understand your feelings, of course I do, and I know how angry you are, and you have every right to be angry. But John, the man came to you, on the last day of the year, this year in which you lost your best friend, and you don’t know why he’s here. Maybe he’s come to beg your forgiveness, allowing both you and him to start the new year afresh, with less of a burden. Oh, John…”

Her arms have latched themselves around John who has collapsed against her, his cane clattering to the ground. “Come, love,” she says, “we’ll go inside again.”

She looks back over her shoulder. “Won’t you come in, Mr Holmes? And pick up John’s cane for him, would you?”

Mycroft nods and steps into the house, pushing the front door shut behind him. In the living room Miss Morstan has helped John into a chair. The room is unexpectedly cosy, the background of non-descript modern furniture enlivened by little feminine touches in the form of tasteful curtains, a more than adequate study of the Battersea power station at dawn on the wall behind the dining table, a few plants and a vase of red amaryllises on the sideboard. The TV is off; a deck of cards lies abandoned on the coffee table.

“Have a seat, Mr Holmes,” Miss Morstan invites him to perch down on the sofa. Swiftly, after leaning the walking cane against the side of John’s chair, Mycroft complies. He’s eminently grateful for her steadying presence and her assistance in getting him into the house even though he will have to get rid of her before he can try to enlist John’s help.

“Thank you,” he smiles up at her. “My sincere apologies for disrupting your evening.”

“You must have your reasons, I suppose,” she says, and turns to John. “John, is it all right to offer him something to drink?”

“No,” John gestures dismissively in no particular direction. “It’s not, but you’re not listening anyway, so you can do whatever you like.”

“A glass of water, please,” Mycroft sends her out to the kitchen. The moment the door has fallen closed behind her John shoots out of his chair. He wobbles precariously but regains his balance quite fast.

“I hope you realise you have Mary to thank for wriggling your way into my house.”

“Obviously,” Mycroft tells him. “You’d better sit down again, John, to listen to what I’m about to ask you. By the way, I’d rather not have Miss Morstan witness our conversation.”

“That’s too bad, for I won’t ask her to leave.”

The door opens again to reveal Miss Morstan bearing a tray with a glass of water and a bowl of salted peanuts. She arranges the tray on the coffee table and hands Mycroft his glass.

“What brings you here, Mr Holmes?” she enquires conversationally.

Mycroft scrapes his throat in a display of uneasiness, shooting a quick glance towards John. “To be honest, Miss Morstan, that is something which, for a variety of reasons, I’d rather not discuss with you. I do realise I’m thoroughly indebted to you for finding myself in this room at all and yet I must ask you, for the sake of the friendship that existed once between my brother and John, to withdraw for a moment.”

“Really?” she raises her carefully plucked eyebrows at him, amusement quirking the corner of her generous mouth. “You have some nerve, don’t you? Kicking your benefactor in the ass.” Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft notices John’s leg is trembling.

“Miss Morstan, I can’t begin…” Mycroft begins, but she interrupts him with an irritated wave of her small hand.

“No, it’s fine, really. To be honest, I think this conversation is long overdue. I’ve been nagging John the past few weeks to phone you and invite you for a shouting match. You must forgive the error of my ways, having met you in the flesh I understand you’d think shouting was beneath you.” She walks over towards John to kiss him on top of his head and brush her fingers over his trembling leg. 

“I’m sorry, John,” she says. “You were right. But he is here now and you should grab your chance to unburden your heart. Talk to him and give him a piece of your mind and get all the hurt out of your system. Do it for us, my love, do it so we’ll have a good start of a happy new year.”

“Mary?” John lunges for her hand, struggling out of his chair, but she gently pushes him down into it.

“I’ll let myself out,” she soothes him. “See you tomorrow, darling. All the best, Mr Holmes.”

Mycroft lifts himself from the sofa and brings her outstretched hand to his lips. “Thank you,” he murmurs and squeezes her fingers before letting the hand drop. 

They wait until the closing bang of the front door sounds through the house. 

“I was having a pleasant evening,” John snarls then.

“Yes, I can imagine,” Mycroft replies. “She’s a remarkable woman. You’re a lucky man, John Watson.”

“Maybe I am. What is it to you?”

“Your well-being will always be of interest to me,” ventures Mycroft. He settles his gaze on John, drawing on all his resources to steady his voice in this decisive moment. “John,” he says, “I’m afraid Sherlock may not always have been entirely honest with you.”

“Is that your big revelation? You’re not telling me anything new here.”

“I suppose not,” Mycroft is quick to admit. “This, however, goes a bit further than making appointments with consulting criminals behind your back.”

“Now you’re going to tell me he knew it wasn’t Irene on the slab. Thank you, Mycroft. For your information, I do have more than two brain cells and I’d figured that one out quite a while ago.”

“So I’d supposed. But no, John, I wouldn’t presume to interrupt your pleasant evening to inform you of something you could have worked out for yourself. What would you say if I told you Sherlock isn’t dead? Not yet.”

“I’d say you’ve gone completely off your rocker, except I think that already happened a long time ago. You conducted his funeral, remember? There’s a grave I visit every week, although you probably know all about that. No doubt you spotted me on one of your ghastly cameras.”

“There is a grave, yes, but it doesn’t contain Sherlock’s remains.”

“Care to tell me what’s in it then?”

Mycroft directs an even gaze at John before replying. “Thirty-one packs of St Bart’s printing paper.”

“What?” John fidgets in his chair, his eyes blinking quickly, unable to decide between outrage and disbelief.

“Thirty-one packs of St Bart’s printing paper,” Mycroft repeats patiently.

“But why? And what… Where’s Sherlock then?” John asks. His bewilderment is almost comical, but Mycroft is too relieved to smile, even inwardly. John has accepted the idea Sherlock might be alive, that’s the first round won. Now comes the difficult part of Mycroft’s confession.

“That’s what I’ve been trying to find out for the past few months and only discovered today. He’s being kept prisoner, up in the Lakes.”

“What?” By now John is positively goggling at him. “Who? Has Moriarty got hold of him? But how?”

“No, Moriarty is dead,” Mycroft cuts in. “Moriarty was nothing but a puppet, allowed to play his games as long as the true criminal mastermind controlling him didn’t tire of his antics.”

“Moriarty dead? But…”

“Please stop interrupting me, John, and allow me to start from the beginning. Before I do, however, I must tell you this. Every bout of enmity between Sherlock and I you witnessed, all the sniping you had to endure, it was false, a parade conducted for our benefit as well as that of others. Sherlock and I are, in fact, quite attached to each other. We’re, after all, the only family each of us has got left. It’s just, for safety reasons, because of my choice of career, to avoid giving anyone the idea of using Sherlock as leverage to influence government politics, we considered it prudent to appear not to be too close.” Mycroft breathes deeply after his confession, hoping the scrap he’s thrown John’s way is enough to satisfy any curiosity his revelation might have wakened. The ex-army doctor may be a liberal-minded man willing to put up with the outlandishness that is sharing a flat with Sherlock Holmes, but Mycroft isn’t too sure he would with equal ease accept the idea of the Holmes brothers frequently sharing a bed, albeit, prudently, never in 221B Baker Street.

“Well, that worked beautifully, didn’t it?” John quips. 

“No,” Mycroft concedes, “no, it didn’t.”

“Right, well, time to be going then,” John decides. 

“Indeed. Not so hasty, though. The home of the man who’s got Sherlock will be harder to break into than the Tower or Buckingham Palace…”

“Not the best examples of airtight security systems,” John points out while struggling out of his chair. “Excuse me for not being impressed.”

“You’d better be, John. You‘re a brave man but, during the time you spent with my brother, you’ve proved you’re not a stupid one. I’m afraid we’ll lose considerable time to staking out the place before we can try and gain access to it. We can’t just barge in and demand for Sherlock to be handed over to us. It might take us days to concoct a proper plan. We’ll pose as colleagues on a hunting trip. That should provide us with an alibi for crawling around the countryside. So you’d better pack some clothes first. I’ll help you.”

“But…” 

“John.” Mycroft struggles to retain a composed demeanour. “Believe me, I want to jump into the car and race off as urgently as you do. If you’d think about it for a second, you’d agree we won’t help Sherlock by rushing off and having ourselves killed or taken prisoner the moment we arrive. Please.”

“Oh, fine. Come help me, then.” John reaches for his crutch and shuffles off to his bedroom. His leg appears to be steadier. Hopefully, the idea of coming to Sherlock’s rescue will have him back in shape again before they hit the road.

***

While collecting some clothes in his bedroom John tells Mycroft in quite definite tones he won’t leave the house without his cane.

“You’re being ridiculous. Your leg is much better. You will be fine by the time we’re in Wasdale,” Mycroft dismisses his arguments.

“Look, Mycroft. First of all, I’m the doctor here, and secondly, it’s _my_ leg and I’m the one who gets to decide whether I need it or not. If the cane isn’t coming, I’m not coming either.”

“Fine, just hurry, would you? Haven’t you got a proper wax coat?” Mycroft smoothes over the matter, looking in despair at the jacket John is stowing into his suitcase.

“No, this is the best gear I’ve got and it’ll have to do,” John says. “Have you caught a sight of yourself in the mirror lately? Don’t tell me the Holmeses go out hunting in a three-piece suit.” 

“Of course not,” Mycroft replies, indignantly, while folding one of John’s shirts. “All my outdoor clothing is at the manor. Thank God it’s situated more or less along our route. Oh, just leave it, your clothes are hopeless. We’ll find you some spare clothing that will actually do.”

“You’re as charming as ever. Do you want me to bring along the Sig Sauer?”

“Good idea. Have you got everything now?”

“Yeah, let’s go.” John swings the suitcase off the bed and waves a hand at his doctor’s bag, which stands on a chair near the door. “You can carry that.” He stalks out of the room without looking at Mycroft. The cane remains leaning at an awkward angle against the edge of the mattress. Mycroft picks it up and stashes it on top of the wardrobe before getting a hold of the bag and hurrying after John.

***

Once they’re seated in the car John insists on calling Mary to inform her he’s gallivanting off with Mycroft and tell her not to worry. Mycroft fishes his own phone out of his jacket pocket and thrusts it at John. 

“Use mine. Don’t mention our names, don’t use hers and tell her not to use yours.”

John accepts the mobile with raised eyebrows. “Your state of paranoia is definitely unhealthy. Maybe _you_ should start seeing a therapist,” he says. Clearly, he doesn’t expect Mycroft to answer his remark, so Mycroft purses his lips guides the car out of London while John conducts an underhanded conversation with Miss Morstan. By the time he ends the call they’ve hit the M1. John hands Mycroft the phone and stays swivelled in his seat to stare at him. 

“Now is a good time to start telling me what you and Sherlock were up to all those months ago,” he says. “I can’t help feeling quite a lot has been going on behind my back.”

“Yes.” Mycroft heaves a deep breath. The last thing he wants is to start explaining to John what happened, for he’s so giddy with relief to be on his way to Sherlock after all this time, he doesn’t want to spoil the excited sparks of happiness fluttering in his stomach. His feeling is highly inappropriate, as he’s all too aware, at this moment Sherlock is still in danger. For all Mycroft knows, he might be dead, perish the thought, and yet Mycroft is glad to be at least _doing_ something, even if it might consist of driving him and John straight into a trap.

“I’m waiting,” John states, an edge of impatience to his tone.

“Yes,” Mycroft sighs. “Fine. I was taking a moment to determine where to begin. This all started shortly after you first met Moriarty at the natatorium. No doubt Sherlock acted as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, but he was, in fact, rather upset by the sight of you in that bomb parka, and he asked me…”

The dim interior of the car helps to submerge them into the sacred anonymity that reigns in the confessional and the words flow as freely form Mycroft’s mouth as if he were a sinner who’s finally yielded to the dulcet deliverance of unburdening his soul into the ears of a sympathetic priest.

John doesn’t interrupt him. 

Not when Mycroft relates the plan Sherlock concocted to do away with Moriarty and roll up his network. Mycroft goes out of his way to ardently stress the fact that Sherlock’s concerns for John’s safety had decided them to not let John in on their elaborate secret, John being such a bad actor. To Mycroft’s profound relief John tips his head to indicate their assessment of his acting capabilities warrants some merit, but he still doesn’t utter a sound. 

Nor when Mycroft tells him how he’d watched impotently when Sherlock slipped into the wrong car. 

Nor when Mycroft explains Molly’s role and her help. He even confesses to writing her the fake letters to keep up the fiction of Sherlock being alive, while in reality he was as much in the dark as everyone else.

“Jesus Christ,” John murmurs upon hearing that one, and he draws a hand over his face and then he gestures for Mycroft to continue. 

The car glides through the darkness along the road rolling itself out in front of them and rewinding itself once they’ve passed. To Mycroft, even though his hands are latched onto the steering wheel, it seems as if they’re not driving but gliding through the night on a magical carpet, whisking them off into a land of dread where Death himself holds sway. He swallows and silently thanks the heavens for the grounding presence of the capable soldier in the seat next to his.

Mycroft continues to relate how Moriarty’s corpse popped up in front of his window one day, how he sent his people chasing after every scrap of information, of his despair at the destruction of Sherlock’s computer, how he engaged Detective Inspector Lestrade to search for clues as to Sherlock’s whereabouts. 

“I spun you the tale of Miss Adler’s untimely demise, but you should know that was false as well,” he goes on. “Sadly, she is dead now and I’m the one responsible for that,” and he tells of his New Zealand visit and its disastrous aftermath which has him disclosing his discovery of Anthea’s role in Sherlock’s abduction. 

“She disappeared.”

“Anthea, bloody hell. She seemed devoted to you,” John exclaims. He falls silent and then he pivots in his seat in such an abrupt manner that he nearly causes Mycroft to lose his grip on the steering wheel. The car teeters on the brink of swerving off the road.

“Careful,” Mycroft warns.

“You had her killed,” John cries, oblivious to the danger. “Jesus fucking Christ, you had her killed.”

“No, John, I didn’t,” denies Mycroft. He waits, mustering the courage for his confession. “I killed her myself. No one knows, except for you, and, though I would still like you to come along to fetch Sherlock with me, I must warn you I won’t hesitate to assassinate you, if you won’t swear to absolute silence on the subject now.”

“Fucking hell,” John mutters. “Sherlock warned me about you. ‘The most dangerous man in London’, he told me, and he was right. Jesus, what did you do with her?”

“That’s information I’d rather not share,” sniffs Mycroft. “It’s of no use to you and might be harmful to me.”

“Yes, I follow. Do you do that often?”

“What?”

John waves his hand in front of his throat. “Off people?”

Mycroft raises his eyebrows in dismissal of the gesture. “Don’t be rude, John,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t sit well with you. Besides, some questions are inappropriate.”

“Right,” John says, “fine. Only, you see, I’ve just discovered I’ve voluntarily stepped into the car of a serial killer. I know Sherlock gets a thrill out of doing just that, but I’ve always considered myself to be a regular bloke who does, well, pretty regular things. One murderous cabbie was enough to last me a lifetime.”

“I’m not a taxi driver, John. You’re acting needlessly mundane now. We both know you’re anything but an ordinary person, so cut the theatrics, if you please.”

“All right. You win,” John chuckles. “So you did in Anthea and then?”

“I discovered a picture of Sherlock on the mobile, handed it over to my people and they came up with the name today. John, we’re nearly there. Would you be so kind as to find the remote control to the gates, it’s in the glove compartment. Thank you.” The car glides to a halt in front of the gates of the Holmes manor. Mycroft waits until they’ve swung open wide and drives through them. They fall shut with a clang that rings through the quiet night.

“About that Moran bloke,” John holds on. “What’s he got against Sherlock then?”

“Nothing. Against me, everything, it seems. But we’re here, John.” Mycroft points the remote control in the direction of the garage doors and it starts sliding upward, a light flashing up automatically to reveal an empty parking space next to a Land Rover. 

“We’ll be taking the other car. It adds to our disguise,” Mycroft tells John. “Let’s go inside first. You get to choose the rifles. Here’s the key to the gunroom and these are for the various cabinets.” They open their doors and Mycroft’s gaze locks briefly with the clock in the dashboard. “Oh, and a happy New Year, John.”

***

The moment they enter the house Mycroft directs John to the gunroom. On his way to his bedroom he makes his own furtive phone call. The line is answered straightaway.

“Yes.”

“Is Baker Street still secure?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Find Detective Inspector Lestrade for me, I presume his most likely current location is his sofa, and escort him to Baker Street until further orders. But go and pick up Miss Hooper and Miss Morstan first. They aren’t aware of each other’s existence yet and Miss Morstan isn’t as yet acquainted with the Detective Inspector and Mrs Hudson either, but I’m sure they’ll get along and Mrs Hudson will be delighted with the company.”

“Yes. And how about Dr Watson?”

“He’s being taken care off. Phone me as soon as they’re safe.”

After he disconnects the call Mycroft unearths an old wax coat that’s only slightly too big and a flat cap for John, both of which once belonged to Mycroft’s father. 

Twenty minutes later they’re seated in the more expansive interior of the Range Rover, speeding along the country road that’s to take them back to the M1 and up to the M6 to Wasdale Head.

“Thank you,” John chortles, but then he sobers up again. “Now tell me about Moran. His name is familiar somehow.”

“You entered the army shortly after his dismissal so you must have picked up some of the gossip. I wish I had a lot to tell you, but I don’t,” begins Mycroft and he goes on to inform John of the pitiful few facts he’s gathered about the former Colonel.

“Holy fuck,” mutters John, when Mycroft is done. “Sounds like a pretty terrifying bloke. You and Sherlock certainly have a knack for making the most interesting enemies.”

“Sebastian Moran is indeed what one might term an archenemy,” Mycroft acknowledges. “They’re part of the job, I wouldn’t be worth my salt if I didn’t have enemies, but it was a bit of a shocker to find I had one of whose existence I was unaware.”

“You stripped the man of his rank. He can’t have been too happy about that.”

“Of course I did, I couldn’t have done otherwise. With his actions he’d defiled the army and thus Her Majesty herself and everything she stands for. Of all the people of my acquaintance I’d have thought you would understand best that I had no choice in the matter.”

“Yes, this one time you are actually right, though it pains me to say so. Moran doesn’t seem to agree with you, however,” John retorts.

“His sense of honour must be warped, to say the least,” Mycroft concedes. “I fully condone your assessment of him as a ‘terrifying bloke’. My mistake was that I considered him to be no more than yet another fish in the vast sea of humanity. A nasty fish, certainly, but nothing worse. Now it appears, I’ve helped create a kind of deep-sea monster, a human Moby Dick.”

“Your mistake is you think everyone is an idiot. Same as Sherlock.”

“Most people _are_ idiots, John. I’d even go so far as to say that Sebastian Moran is an idiot. Except he’s a highly intelligent and unpredictable one.”

“I suppose so. He’s a first-rate asshole, that’s for sure. If I had a score to settle with someone I’d go for the man himself and not for his brother who had nothing to do with it.”

Mycroft swallows. Naturally, John has pointed out the one flaw in the story Mycroft has been dishing up. However, naturally, Mycroft can’t inform John why Moran’s decision to take Sherlock prisoner has provided him with the ultimate means to wound and torment Mycroft, and gloat over the agonised despair of the man who cast him out of the army and a life of outward respectability. 

“Exactly,” Mycroft mumbles now, hoping his concurrence with John’s statement will be enough to lead John up the garden path and away from the dangerous topic. “We must be prepared for the worst.”

“Well, I survived Afghanistan,” John quips.

“You did indeed. That’s why I feel oddly comforted to have you covering my back.”

“Just to remind you, I’m doing this for Sherlock, not you.”

“Of course,” Mycroft murmurs.

“Right. Well, I’ll try to grab a few hours of sleep. I guess you’re like Sherlock and can stay on your feet for days but I certainly can’t and I want to start chasing that bastard the moment we arrive.”

“Here.” Mycroft reaches behind him to retrieve a woollen plaid from the backseat. “This will keep you nice and warm. The handle to lower the back of the chair is on your left.”

After some fumbling John is stretched out in a near-horizontal position, the blanket drawn up to his chin.

“Are you comfortable?” Mycroft asks.

“Yeah,” John slurs, his voice already muffled from drowsiness.

“Good night.”

“Don’t fall asleep,” John tells Mycroft and nods off.

***

The darkness keeps pulling them in as they drive north, settlements becoming both smaller and more scattered about. Mycroft’s eyes are locked on the small patch of road revealed to him in the glare of the headlights. Next to him John has started to snore with soft little grunts, his body quiet under the blanket. His sleeping form reminds Mycroft of his own tiredness; if he were sensible he would pull over and catch a few hours of rest himself, but he pushes the thought away. He won’t sleep, not until he’s dealt with Moran and freed Sherlock, even if it means he won’t ever sleep again. 

He hasn’t got a plan as he has no idea what to expect. John and he will pose as hunters, this will allow them to roam the countryside freely while carrying a gun, and help them discover the lay of the land. How to get into Moran’s house, other than through ringing the bell and announcing himself, he hasn’t figured out yet. Hopefully, once he’s absorbed Wasdale and its surroundings something will come up.

Something will _have_ to come up.

_Sherlock._

A sound escapes from his throat, weak and pathetic. Oh, he prays, please let him be alive still, so I can free him, heal him, kiss his temple, hold him close, so he can be mine again.

Right then his phone starts ringing, helping him escape from his moment of pathetic weakness. He whips it out of his pocket and presses the button to connect the call.

“They’re safe.”

A sigh of relief almost escapes from his lips.

“Good. How did they take it?”

“They were all calm when my man left, except for Mrs Hudson, but she seemed happy enough. They’re playing Canasta now. The ladies have opened a bottle of red wine and Lestrade is drinking a beer. There are also some cheesy nachos.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft muses Mrs Hudson might be forgiven for the cheesy nachos, whatever they may be – some unpalatable snack barely fit for human consumption, probably, invented by the food industry to get rid of their industrial waste, considering she had to improvise at the last minute. “Thank you. Let me know if anything is amiss.”

“Yes.”

***

Dawn is announced by a faint shimmer of light brushing Scafell Pike with hesitant fingers by the time Mycroft pulls up in front of the hotel. The moment the car halts, John wakes up. 

“Are we there?”

“Yes.”

John sniffs and scrubs his hands over his face to cleanse it of sleepiness. When he’s done his hair is sticking up at several awkward angles, but he looks alert and wide-awake. More awake than Mycroft himself as a quick glance in the front mirror confirms. 

“So what’s the plan?”

“Check in, chat up the owner, have a look around,” Mycroft says.

“In short, you’ve still got no idea at all?”

“No, not really,” Mycroft affirms.

“And what was our cover story again?” John pulls the passport and the hunting permit out of his coat pocket and scrutinises them. “John Henry Wilson,” he says, wrinkling his nose in distaste. “And you are?”

“Michael Benjamin Horatio Gladstone.” John shoots him a look of wry amusement Mycroft ignores. “We’re colleagues come up for a hunting trip,” he explains. “Finance city boys, working for Shad Anderson Bank.”

“I must say I rather hate the idea of being a colleague of that git Sebastian Wilkes.”

“Nowadays finance is the great equaliser, John. No other profession would provide us with such a perfect subterfuge as to why two men, obviously stemming from such different strata in society, would have struck up a friendship deep enough for them to go hunting together.”

“If you say so. Shall we be off then?” John throws open the car door, hops out, and stalks off into the direction of the inn. Mycroft scrambles to catch up with him.

Inside, they’re greeted by an elderly woman, a bit the worse for wear for it being twenty four past eight on New Year’s morning.

“We have a reservation,” Mycroft tells her affably. “Name of Gladstone.”

“Gladstone?” the woman dully repeats. “Gladstone? Can’t remember coming over that name and I’m the one who handles all the bookings here. There must be a mistake.”

“Oh dear,” Mycroft knits his eyebrows in a mix between disappointment and confusion. “Well, it was rather late in the day, I suppose, as we more or less decided to come up here on the spot. But I got a confirming e-mail from your website, so…” he trails off expectantly.

“That’s impossible,” the woman informs him in a definite tone. “We’re fully booked.”

“Oh dear,” repeats Mycroft. “How strange. Would you mind… might I suggest… would you be so kind as to check your computer?”

“I _know_ what’s in the computer.”

“Of course,” Mycroft shushes her. “But let’s just have a look. Please?”

“Oh, all right, if you must,” the woman acquiesces. She swivels her chair and turns the screen of the computer on the stand so Mycroft and John can see the screen as well. “Here, I told you there’s no… hey, hold on, what’s this?”

“A booking in the name of Gladstone,” Mycroft confirms.

“But how? This room was booked last week by a couple called Bricks.” Her voice has risen in sincere bewilderment.

“It appears they’ve decided to hit them,” Mycroft deadpans blandly. Beside him he can feel John stifling his laughter. “Maybe they discovered the bed wasn’t a double after they’d booked and decided to cancel their reservation. Such are the vagaries of the hotel business, no doubt. Luckily Mr Wilson and I decided to drive up to Wasdale and lodge in your charming inn, instead. Would you mind handing us the keys now? We’ve driven all night and I could do with a shower.”

“What… how… of course,” the woman stutters, recollecting herself. “My apologies, Mr Gladstone, and…” peering at the screen, “Mr Wilson. It’s just all so highly irregular. The room is free right now, so you can go up if you want to. Would you like some breakfast as well?”

“Yes, definitely,” John gives her his most charming smile.

“It will be served in the lounge in half an hour. You’re in room eight. Upstairs on your left.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft intones, picking up the key from the bar. “After you, John.”

***

“So, the poor Brickses are going to show up here for nothing later today,” John rounds on Mycroft once the door to their room has fallen shut behind them.

Mycroft heaves a put-upon sigh. “People should check properly what they’ve actually booked. It’s such a charming hotel they’ve arranged for themselves in Keswick and yet they drove up here, even though the address, the confirmation and the route planner to their hotel are on their phone.”

“They could have printed the confirmation they got from this place, you know.”

“So what? Paper is patient, John. In these days anything put to paper hardly counts as evidence. No, they should have remembered they decided to change their booking at the last minute. But then, the sad truth is, people are indeed idiots.”

The answer doesn’t seem to satisfy John, but luckily he appears to be content to let the matter rest.

”What do we do now?”

“Ah.” Mycroft wriggles his eyebrows. “Well, I’ve managed to thoroughly upset our gracious hostess, so I’ve paved the way for you to descend upon her and treat her to your considerable charm. She’s bound to feel sorry for you for having to put up with me. Perhaps you’d better shower first and make your way to the breakfast room after to see what information you can coax out of her.”

“Fine,” John huffs. “I’ll use up all the hot water.” And with that promise he stomps into the ensuite.

“You do whatever you have to do, John,” Mycroft replies, absently. He walks up to the window and gazes at the view of rolling hills and fields. In the distance the big body of water glistens beneath the low, cold winter sun, an outcrop of big trees on its edge. The Moran homestead. Where Sherlock is kept. So near.

A shiver runs through Mycroft’s body and he rests his hand against the glass to steady himself. All these past months of worry and grief. He’s never before been this close to his goal and he still hasn’t got the faintest how to go about insinuating himself into Moran’s presence. All he has to do is press the button marked ‘zero’ on his mobile, and in the blink of an eye the cavalry will come thundering down the valley to overrun Moran’s stronghold and apprehend the villain. Except, during that nanosecond the eyelid has dropped down to shield Mycroft’s gaze, Moran might do away with his precious booty. Mycroft can’t risk the possibility of Moran slipping a knife between Sherlock’s ribs, straight into his heart, or – and the thought makes Mycroft revolt in horror – yanking his hairy fist into Sherlock’s soft, dark curls, the coarse grey hairs mingling with the silken strands to expose Sherlock’s throat, that vulnerable, creamy white swan neck, and lay it open with one slash of the knife. And then, while Zero’s men are wrestling Moran to the ground, he would suddenly stop fighting them, his whole body going slack, his shark grin creeping up to his face and he would say, “By the way, did you know your employer…” 

Urgently, he builds a dyke inside his chest against the wave of despair that threatens to wash over him. The feeling of helplessness he’s experiencing frankly terrifies him. Never before has he been reduced to this, a string puppet stumbling through the darkness, flailing about and desperately grabbing onto anything, anything that might save him from destruction. Is this what other people feel like? How… Dispiritedly, he trashes around in his mind for the proper term but can’t find anything more fitting then ‘hateful’. 

_Stop it, you fool_ , he instructs himself. _John can walk out of that bathroom any moment. You don’t want him to catch you in the middle of falling apart._

Turning away from the window he swipes a hand over his eyes and lifts his suitcase onto the bed. The ordinary act of hanging his clothing in the ancient wardrobe the inn has provided them with will help him to clear his mind of any pathetic thoughts.

***

Downstairs in the cosy lounge Mycroft finds John ensconced in a friendly conversation with the waitress while tucking into a huge plate of full English.

“A glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice and two slices of toast,” Mycroft tells the girl but John waves his fork disparagingly. 

“We’re going hunting, _Mike_ ,” he chews around a bite of sausage, mischief glinting in his eye. “The full works for him as well, thanks,” he directs his attention to the girl.

“Yes, Mr Wilson,” she smiles and rushes off to the kitchen.

“You should eat properly,” John hisses at Mycroft in a low tone. “Doctor’s orders.”

“Fine.” Mycroft decides he’s too weary to argue this particular point. Besides, his stomach is rumbling insistently and they’ve a long day out in the field ahead of them. “Did you learn anything?”

“ _Colonel_ Moran is a model citizen, apparently,” John informs Mycroft between bites. “The epitome of a true gentleman and a good neighbour. Employs two people from the village full-time, gardening and maintenance work chiefly, and a women goes over four times a week to keep the house. He sponsors the local football club, and donates heavily to the organisation of the village fair every year. Pays for the flower arrangements in the Church as well.”

The girl comes up to their table, carrying Mycroft’s plate and a fresh pot of tea. They wait until she’s arranged everything and gone to serve a boisterous party of walkers, before John continues. “He does receive lots of guests and these can be a bit wild, apparently, but he always apologises properly for their behaviour and pays up handsomely for any damage they might have inflicted. All in all, no better man ever walked this earth.”

Mycroft hums approvingly while cutting up his bacon. “That was to be expected,” he says. “It wouldn’t do for Moran to behave otherwise. It’s a small community, after all, and his family has basically been running these surroundings for centuries.”

“It doesn’t bode well for our mission, though.”

“No,” Mycroft acknowledges. “There’s nothing to it but to go and survey the lay of the land for ourselves. In all likelihood there won’t be too much gardening and repair work going on right now, so we’d better make hay while the sun shines and spend the day spying on the place.”

“Right,” John says, wiping his mouth and throwing his napkin on the table. “I’d better go fetch my boots and the guns then. Hand me the car keys, would you?”

“Here. I’ll finish breakfast and be with you shortly.”

“Fine, I’ll wait for you outside. The weather looks nice enough and I have a bit of a headache.”

With a wink for the waitress he stalks out of the saloon. Mycroft polishes off his platter and follows him shortly.

“Mr Gladstone,” the owner calls him when he passes the bar.

“Yes,” he pivots towards her, careful to plaster a cordial expression on his face first.

“Someone left you a message. Here.” She waves a white envelope in his direction.

“Really? Did somebody ring?” His heart sinks. Is Wilkinson in trouble already? “Why didn’t you call me to the phone?”

“Oh no. It was just Dicky Lewis who came to deliver a letter for you. Here.” The woman stands and thrusts the envelope at him.

“Thank you,” Mycroft reaches for it. He regards both the front and the back of the envelope. They’re both blank.

“It’s not addressed to me,” he points out.

“No, I can see that,” the owner exclaims, clearly considering him to be nothing but an annoying idiot. Mycroft can almost hear her thinking, _These smart City boys, think they’re better than us, stupid twits, all of them_. “But Dicky said I was to give it to you, so I did.”

“Of course,” murmurs Mycroft and hurries out of the bar. Outside, John is waiting next to the car, face upwards to catch a few rays of the feeble sun.

“What’s that?” he enquires when he sees the envelope.

“I don’t know,” Mycroft says, scrutinising the envelope in the daylight, holding it up to find out whether he can discern its contents. He traces his fingers over the surface. The envelope contains a card, scooped paper by the feel of it. “Plain white envelope, produced in the Netherlands, most likely, available at every stationary store. The owner just gave it to me. Told me it had been brought by someone who said to give it to me.”

“But how…”

“Exactly.” Mycroft whisks his pocket knife out of his inside coat pocket and uses it to slide open the envelope. He peers inside and then he slides in his thumb and forefinger to grab onto the thick, creamy paper of the card. One side is blank, a few words are written on the other side, scribbled with a Parker Duofold with a Meridian nib in an excessively elaborate handwriting.

_Colonel Sebastian Moran requests the pleasure of the company of Messrs Holmes and Watson at the dinner to be held at eight o’clock pm at Goodrich Hall._

***


	15. I have full cause of weeping

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “John,” he says. He pauses and screws his eyes shut. _Oh, what the hell!_ “John, if I were to tell you that I love Sherlock. Love him, even more than I love myself. If I told you that, would you still help me?”

“What is it?” John is craning his neck at an impossible angle in his attempt to read what’s written on the card. 

“Here.” With a wild gesture Mycroft thrusts it in John’s direction. His hands are shaking and he pushes them deep into the pockets of his wax coat, grateful he’s currently attired in clothing designed for utility rather than dress sense. Nothing like outsized pockets hidden beneath stiff fabric to get a grip on one’s quivering fingers again.

“Jesus… but how…” gasps John. The card flutters in his clenched fist while his eyes search Mycroft’s in a wild appeal for enlightenment. In the bright light of the crisp winter morning they appear to be unnaturally blue and guileless, the trusting eyes of a child. Under the force of his companion’s distress Mycroft’s own overwrought senses ground to a halt, almost literally. Inside his head something clicks – for a second he’s amazed John doesn’t react to the sudden loud noise – and then he feels the soft flannel of the lining brush comfortingly against his finger pads as the nervous trembles flee from his nerve endings.

He breathes deeply, several times, drawing the oxygen into his lungs and slowly expelling it again. The air around them is charged with electricity, a positive energy rebooting Mycroft with a fresh power shot. 

“This is what he lives for,” he hears himself explaining. “His deviated idea of entertainment appears to consist of springing unpleasant surprises on people. Rather…” his mind casts around for the right term while his gaze searches John’s face to gauge the impact of his words, “… immature, I’d say.”

“Yeah.” Sniffing – a little white around the nose – John gazes down at the card. “I suppose you want to keep this. As evidence or something.”

After a slight hesitation Mycroft lays a comforting hand on the shorter man’s bicep.

“You can dispose of it, for all I care,” he says. “Let’s go for a walk. Physical exercise clears the head. The stimulation will promote your mental recovery and besides, we need to think.”

“You want to go for a walk?” John looks thoroughly discomfited by the suggestion. “Bloody hell, Mycroft, have you lost it? He _knows we’re here_. We couldn’t give him a better chance to do us in if we walked straight up to him and asked him to chop off our bloody heads. The bastard probably knows every crag and nook and cranny in these parts, he was born here, after all. The place is bound to be crawling with sharpshooters.”

“He won’t kill us, John,” Mycroft corrects John’s assessment of their situation. “At least, not yet,” he modifies. “Do calm down and use your brain, would you? The man has just invited us to sup with him. In murdering us now, he would forego the pleasure of our company and his opportunity to torture me a little longer. He’s desperate to watch me grovel at his feet before sending off a bullet into my brain.” 

Gripping John by the elbow he steers them towards the Range Rover. “Help yourself to the binoculars and your rifle. We’ll be free to roam these hills today, in the comfortable certainty that a shopper in Oxford Street during the Boxing Day clearance would be more prone to come to harm. By panicking and acting like fools we will accomplish nothing. We won’t surprise Moran, so we’ll have to get the better of him at dinner and accept he’ll keep a close eye on us in the meantime. To my knowledge the awareness of someone monitoring your every action has never kept you from dashing off in some foolhardy scheme together with my brother.”

That coaxes a small smile from John, no more than a quirk of the right corner of his mouth, but it’s enough. “All right, sorry.” He unfolds the map Mycroft hands him and starts poring over it.

“If you want us to play hide and seek with Moran’s men, I suggest we start by tackling that hill. Up there we can take in most of this part of the valley.” 

Mycroft throws a swift gander at the map and the position of John’s forefinger on it. “You’re right. And the trail commences here at this very parking lot, most convenient.” He rubs his hands; the prevailing cold has rendered them more frozen than the atmosphere during the last European Council meeting. “Shall we be off then?”

Quickly, he troops off, rushing up the stony lane that trails away from the inn’s parking lot, John following hard on his heels. The reconnoitring provides him with the excuse to retreat from the stifling confines of the inn, and the valley, and the dreadful anxiety, gnawing away at his mind with the mindless determination of a rodent that has unearthed a stash of electricity cables to sharpen its teeth. His meticulously restructured composure vanished at the sight of John’s finger on that map, effectively reducing them to two tiny specks in the magnitude of this ancient valley. What arrogance to believe he and John, two men all on their own, would manage to unhinge a small army of ruthless killers and fly the coop with their prisoner, even if Mycroft might be smarter than any of the many English foxes that have led whole hunting parties astray. This apprehension, the fear of imminent defeat, is wholly unworthy of him. He should brace himself, for the alternative would be to accept he’s nothing but _the most disgraceful of cowards_. 

In just a few hours he’ll be facing the man who stole Sherlock from him. The past months he’s lived for nothing but the exposure of his enemy. He’s waited – patiently, eating out his insides, but patiently, as he was rendered blind and confused and reduced to wandering randomly in the dark – for his opponent to reveal himself. And on some level he’d known all along that he would appeal to John and John alone to join him in ferreting out the perpetrator. Finally, the moment he’s longed for – thirsted after with the despair of an animal searching for water in the desert – has arrived. He should be shouting with joy, fall down on his knees and praise the Lord. And he would…

… if only he weren’t so terribly afraid. 

For Sherlock’s life, first and foremost, but also for denunciation. And the latter apprehension is so reprehensible, in truth, for what is the loss of his reputation compared to the loss of his brother? It’s mad and egoistical to go after a murderous maniac with John. Zero is competence personified. Deep in his heart Mycroft knows his capable minion wouldn’t bungle the operation of liberating Sherlock and capturing Moran. 

_No, but he would only have to look at the two of you, and reflect upon the desperate chase you had him undertake…_

So, basically, in not employing the man he’s rendering Sherlock a disservice, and irresponsibly endangering the life of his brother’s best friend, who’s responded to Mycroft’s request so trustingly, so admirably. Does he really assume himself to be Mycroft, the god of fate, an irresponsible figure languishing on a chaise longue with his beaker of mead, absentmindedly popping a Muscat grape into his mouth every now and then, while idly toying with the lives of men in order to protect his own interests? 

And what are those? Mycroft’s _career_. What’s his station in life but vanity? The same despicable vanity he looks down upon with such contempt when displayed by others, less proficient than he at camouflaging their desires behind a mask of exasperated indifference with the world at large, and humanity in particular. When confronted with the choice between Sherlock and his career he wouldn’t hesitate, not for the tiniest flash of a second…

Except, if he were to turn his back on the world, if he were to draw Sherlock close and kiss him on the lips in front of a disapproving audience, and if he were to retire with him to his own Arcadia, their personal Xanadu, where they would live a simple life of quiet study and contemplation and reciprocal passionate devotion, if they were to do that – they would last a week at the most before they would be at each other’s throats. 

No, he can’t run the risk of exposure. General knowledge of his inclination would lead to his downfall, and in his tumble he would drag Sherlock along, down into their exclusive hell, exquisitely cut to suit them to perfection, and then they might as well be dead.

No, better to have seen Sherlock while still alive…

Perhaps, upon reflection, worst of all is the guilt he feels regarding the trusting figure faithfully trudging on behind him.

***

They’re making good progress. Mycroft is uncomfortably hot and sweating inside his clothes. It’s been such a long time since he last went for a country walk, he can’t even remember when he did it last, maybe when their Father was still alive. The man loved to ramble through the fields, but he set a slower pace and the last time was before he was taken ill, so that was, what, over ten years ago?

Too many layers he’s bedecked himself with. A vest and a shirt, a cashmere sweater and merino scarf, the wax jacket lined with thick flannel - he’s prepared himself more fully than one of Shackleton’s expedition members. His hands tear at the coat’s snap fasteners and he yanks the scarf from his neck and stuffs it into the game pocket.

Behind him John is working hard to keep up, as evidenced by his laboured breathing and the stones rolling from under his feet. 

“Slow down, would you?” he gasps. “How did I get to be so lucky to be running after two Holmeses?”

“A rhetorical question if ever I heard one,” Mycroft retorts but he narrows the length of his strides, grateful for the distraction from his morbid musings and the excuse to slow down. “Don’t tell me you’re in worse shape than a Whitehall bureaucrat, please.”

“Very long corridors in Whitehall,” John grumbles. 

“Yes,” concedes Mycroft, and then they both fall silent, but it’s a companionable silence, drawing them close. Beneath the soft cotton of his vest, Mycroft can feel his shoulders relax, allowing him to swing his arms more freely. After all, John has chosen to accompany Mycroft on this mad mission of his own accord. At Sherlock’s side, he’s proven himself a formidable asset, time and again. Perhaps their situation isn’t as desperate as Mycroft’s treacherous mind would have him believe.

The lane branches a few times and then becomes a path that, in a few hundred yards, peters out into a trail that’s basically an empty streambed. They both check the map Mycroft’s brought along to conclude they’re following the correct route to take them up to the fell overlooking the lake and Goodrich Hall. 

The weather meanwhile has taken a turn for the worse. Uncharacteristically sunny and bright when they set off, with only a mild breeze caressing their faces, but now a blustery wind is tugging insistently at his coat. Dark clouds of an ominous inky blue – fat with the promise of rain and sleet – have arrived, sailing in from the sea. The winter grass and some straggling bushes of greyed heather are already sodden with damp, and the stones beneath their feet are slippery and wet. It must have rained quite heavily the day before. 

They’ve covered another few hundred yards when John suddenly begins, “You know what, Mycroft? Seeing as how you’re such chums with the army, I don’t understand why you didn’t just order an SAS-team to go shoot the bastard and liberate Sherlock.”

_You have an uncanny aptitude for broaching a topic I’d rather avoid._

“John,” he replies in his most pleasant voice, dripping with false delight at the introduction of the subject. “As ever I’m flattered by the amount of influence you attribute to my humble position in the British Government. I might be in a position to give a nudge in a certain direction with regard to some minor legislation, perhaps, but I certainly am not trusted with the great responsibility of leading our Armed Forces.”

“Oh, shut it, Mycroft.”

“Besides,” Mycroft goes on, unperturbed. “Moran’s sole objective in taking my brother prisoner has been to taunt me, so I think sending in an SAS-team wouldn’t serve our purposes at all. To the contrary, he’d merely do away with Sherlock first, and shoot himself after.”

A reasonable enough explanation of his motives. Nevertheless, Mycroft adds, for good measure, “That would still leave us with all the information we need to unravel his network, but that isn’t our main concern right now.”

“No.”

“Please remember, John, you’ve just been treated for the first time to the shocks he likes to deliver to people. Rather a blow, and I admit to being quite shaken for a few seconds.”

“Oh, you were, were you?” Now John sounds amused.

“Yes, I was. Even I am only human, though quite a few people seem willing to argue the converse. But that’s been his tactic all along, showing off, driving home he’s smarter than I am, reminding me of his perfect preparation. In flailing about in the darkness I’ve provided him with prodigious entertainment. His amusement at my expense must have been addictive. As with all obsessions, the effect of the initial titillation starts wearing off after a while. Hence his decision to send his little bomb this morning. He needs an admiring audience.”

Behind him, John snorts. “Sounds familiar. The frailty of genius, Sherlock once called it.”

 _Oh, clever._ But then his little brother _was_ clever.

“Exactly. However, history has taught that the tactic of shock and awe doesn’t pay off in the long run. Essentially, it’s the instrument of the weak.”

“Weak,” huffs John. “For how long had we been here when you were given that note?”

“Not long. However, Anthea stopped answering her phone four days ago. That forewarned Moran his disclosure was imminent. His men will have been guarding the entrance to the valley, not a difficult task, as there’s only one road. Having him invite us took me aback; I hadn’t counted on him paving our way inside.”

“Straight into his trap.”

“Yes, but inside, John.” A surge of uncharacteristic elation wells up in Mycroft’s chest. “Once there we’ll play along with his script, until the time arrives to rewrite it.”

“Great, it all sounds like the most tremendous fun. But how do you explain he knew our aliases. We’d only just arrived.”

“One of his men is installed in the inn as a guest and wriggled the name out of our hostess. After that it was easy enough to have a boy deliver the note. Moran is, after all, well liked in these parts as you so obligingly found out this morning.”

“So, the whole village is at his beck and call then? Jesus.” The tone of John’s voice drops in disgust.

“For activities that can’t stand the light of day I wouldn’t suppose that to be a highly likely scenario. Look around you, this is _England_ , John. Not some obscure valley in the deep South of Italy.”

On cue the first drop of rain splatters on Mycroft’s nose. 

“I don’t know where I’d rather be right now,” John remarks drily, and that’s the last bit of dryness they get to enjoy, for the heavens choose that moment to open themselves in earnest. Soon the wetness is running from their coats with the torrential enthusiasm of the mountain stream that’s instantly swirling around their feet. 

Against the wind they struggle the last few paces up to the rim. Once they’re clear they start fighting their way along the ridge. Mycroft leans into the gale, his gaze locked on his feet digging into the narrow trail. It’s only a mile to the vantage point overlooking the Moran manor, but it feels like seven. Gradually, Mycroft begins to lose all feeling in his fingers and the tip of his nose. When he looks back to check whether John is still following, he sees that the shorter man doesn’t fare better, but is faithfully stomping on regardless. Mycroft reaches down into the breast pocket of his coat for his flask and turns to hand it over to John.

“Here,” he says. “A bit early, perhaps, but warranted, considering the circumstances.”

“Thanks.” Eagerly, John’s hand shoots out for the flask and he pours a generous shot of Scotch into his throat.

“Ah, that’s good.” He wipes his mouth and returns the flask. “You came well prepared.”

“Not necessarily,” Mycroft says. “We’re ignoring sensible safety rules by lingering up here in this weather. Look.” He extends his hand towards the valley. “There it is.”

Among the dark hills, nearly hidden behind the sheets of rain dropping from the skies, the lake stretches along the valley floor, its dirty grey waters gleaming dully with the mournful aspect of a carelessly discarded jumble of once-treasured family pewter. 

Between the lake’s shore and the road Moran’s grounds sprawl behind a high plastered wall, too high to scale without additional gear as far as Mycroft can discern. A pair of intricately wrought iron gates adorned with the Moran family crest is set in the wall on the side of the road. Slightly further down, about fifty yards or so a small wooden door inside the wall gives access to the estate as well. A shiver of unease runs down Mycroft’s back as he detects the rusty iron ring hanging on the door.

_Just like in the dream._

Behind the gates a great lane of firs runs up straight to the house sprawling on the lake’s shore. The structure is gigantic, a nightmare of Gothic Victorian architecture, with two big towers and an abundance of turrets and chimneys, and far too many recessed windows, with a great conservatory added to the right, to top it all off. Among the trees lining the shore Mycroft discerns the outlines of a boathouse. Several outbuildings lie closer to the road. The whole place exudes abundant affluence, lacking the true elegance of taste that is bred in the bone and cannot be acquired. The colour of the paintwork clashes violently with the local stone used to build the house, and the outlay of the gardens, even though they lie sodden and abandoned beneath the onslaught of driving rain, conveys a wish to dazzle and overpower, rather than allow the senses to adapt and adjust themselves into languid repose.

“My God, the place is huge,” John breathes. “How are we ever going to find Sherlock in there?”

“By thinking properly,” clips back Mycroft. “Almost daily people who aren’t supposed to know about Moran’s activities on the side-line are scrambling over the grounds. So either one of those outbuildings has been converted into a prison, not very likely in my opinion, or the house has a basement that has been outfitted with a holding cell. The latter option has a higher feasibility. He must have a shooting rink as well, both for his own pleasure and for his men to practice, and what better place for that than a sound-proofed basement?”

“Where he can do us in nicely.” 

“Except he won’t.” Mycroft can’t abide any last-minute misgivings on John’s part. “Hence, we should be grateful for our invitation.”

“Strange sense of obligation you have, Mycroft.”

“In the government, one has to,” Mycroft answers absently. “It’s a pity we can’t bring the gun. He’ll have us searched before he’ll let us into us presence, so you’d merely see it confiscated. Those grounds, lying there so forlornly now, will be swarming with his henchmen this evening.”

“I must say you have a knack for making this sound like the most stupid action ever.”

“If you say so. I always find it does help to be prepared for every possible scenario. The lake provides the most expedient means of escape. Unfortunately, motorboats aren’t allowed on it so Moran won’t have one of those stashed in that boathouse. Still, we might find a canoe.” 

***

“You know what?” John begins once they’re traipsing back. After half an hour or so spent in the unrelenting rain, a mist, rising from the water and blurring their view, decided Mycroft that they’d only catch a miserable cold up on the hill and might as well return to the inn for a hot shower and a spot of tea.

“No,” Mycroft answers.

“Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think you’re still not being entirely honest with me. You’ve spun me a moving tale of the incompetence of the SAS. Now, I’ll do you the favour of being entirely honest with you, and tell you I take your story for nothing but a lot of bullshit.”

Mycroft grinds to a halt with some difficulty – they’ve just started to descend, and the soaked gravel of the trail is treacherously slippery, fast rivulets dragging the stones from under their feet. Plastering his most hurt and vulnerable expression, tinged with a hint of sadness, to his face, he draws himself up to his full height, and veers around. His eyes glisten with pained astonishment. As he was the one walking ahead, they are now at the same level as John’s. “I’m very sorry to hear you say so,” he ventures in a voice rendered husky by suppressed emotion.

“Yep.” John endorses, staring straight back at Mycroft, tipping up his chin, oblivious to both Mycroft’s show of injured indignation and the driving rain. “Because I’m right and you’re a shifty-faced bastard, if ever I knew one, and you’re lying to me and I don’t trust you. Look, I want my friend back, and I understand you want your brother back, right?” 

Mycroft nods.

“Your brother, who treats you like the right pain in the ass you are. The brother you go out of your way to insult and belittle in front of everyone who cares to look! Because you and Sherlock are actually great pals. You just thought it would be fun to have us all think you hated each other’s guts, so the two of you could have a laugh at the rest of the world, because everybody but you is a moron, right?’’

“I obviously can’t stop you from interpreting my explanation…”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake, would you just cut it, Mycroft!” John yells. “Cut the fucking crap. Look, you won’t employ the SAS, or your own army of thugs. Don’t play at being shocked, of course you have your own private army. No matter. What matters is that you want to walk in there with me, straight into that booby trap, and I’m coming with you, because it’s my best friend in there, and I want him out. Because I _need_ him. But you must admit it’s entirely illogical and so I want you to tell me why.”

“John, I’m saddened…”

“Why, Mycroft? What’s actually going on between you and Sherlock that you’re so desperate to keep hidden from everyone?”

A spray of spittle accompanies the last words, barked out of a mouth that’s a gaping hole of rage. The warmth of the drops of saliva might even be considered a pleasant addition to the wet film of ice-cold rain clinging to his cheeks. John’s eyes – those guileless blue orbs – are narrowed slits breathing fire. His fists hang balled and rigid with anger at his sides, ready to fly up and blitz any second. Mycroft stares at him, struggling to retain a posture of dejected confusion. The urge to rip off the cloak of aloof civil servant and hurtle himself at John, battling him to the ground and shouting at him to _shut the fuck up_ , has him balling his fists as well. Slowly, deliberately, he flexes his hands, as if he’s exercising them against the cold.

“I’m sorry to hear you won’t trust me, John,” he manages. “Perhaps, if such is the case, you’d better leave. I’ll pay for your transport, of course.”

“No, dammit! You’re not sending me away. Look, forget it, okay? Forget I asked. Just tell me… oh, fucking actual hell… fine, just … let’s go on.”

“Thank you.” Mycroft pivots and they recommence their slide down the treacherous intricacies of the path. While his feet manoeuvre the heaving sea of rolling stones Mycroft’s mind skitters over John’s words again. Perhaps his assessment of the doctor’s acuity has been naïve; the man is a clever enough fellow after all. But then, Mycroft hasn’t entirely been himself lately. Which might be forgiven, considering his circumstances these last few months, which were – not exactly conducive to well-balanced reasoning. 

Perhaps he should confide in John. Perhaps he and Sherlock should have placed their trust in John right from the moment it became clear that the doctor had evolved into an irremovable part of Sherlock’s life, providing his brother with the admiring audience his genius needed, as well as running around London with him and partaking in the exhilaration of the chase.

Mycroft’s role was to admire and applaud from the side, and send Zero’s men to the rescue every now and then with an irritated scowl. Or he’d toss Sherlock a juicy titbit to sink his teeth into, but John was the one at Sherlock’s side, faithfully clamping his teeth down next to his brother, and together they wheedled and coaxed and shook until they’d concluded another case and entered 221B in triumph yet again. Never mind that Mycroft was always the first to be informed of their exploits in a voice jubilant with elation. John was the man who’d ensured countless of times Sherlock was able to place the call to Mycroft at all.

Time and again he’d proven himself indispensable, to the work that was so important to Sherlock, to his mental health. How meagrely they’d rewarded his trust, his absolute acceptance of every outrageous situation Sherlock dragged him into.

The sudden urge for confession leaps out at him from the mist swirling up from the valley. He breathes deeply, swaying slightly before halting and pivoting towards his companion.

“John,” he says. He pauses and screws his eyes shut. _Oh, what the hell!_ “John, if I were to tell you that I love Sherlock. Love him, even more than I love myself. If I told you that, would you still help me?”

***

Back at the inn Mycroft stumbles up the stairs with John’s aid. In the room he sheds his coat with difficulty and sinks down on the bed, exhausted and empty after his revelation. With a grateful smile he accepts the glass of water John hands him. Body and mind are screaming at him to let them rest now. Small wonder as he’s slept badly over the past few days – the past few months, ever since Sherlock disappeared – and not slept at all last night.

“I think I might lie down for a while,” he tells John, who nods once, grunts that might be a good idea, and disappears into the bathroom. Mycroft collapses onto his back. When he comes to himself again John is busy pulling an atrocious jumper in an amazingly unattractive petrol colour over his head. Obviously, the acquaintance between John and Miss Morstan has been too short for her to engage in the mighty task of improving the doctor´s wardrobe.

“You’d better get into your pyjamas,” John says. “Do you need help? I’ve developed quite a talent for getting sapped, gangly gits out of their clothes and into their bed.” At Mycroft’s vehement headshake he smiles and concedes, “Fine, didn’t think you’d take up on the offer. I’ll go and have enjoy my tea in front of the fire. Shall I have them take up something to you in two hours?”

“Much obliged, but oh, John…”

“Yes?”

“Please ask for a different blend from the affront to humanity they served us this morning. Orange Pekoe, preferably. Twinings will do if that’s the best they can come up with.”

Even though John’s head is already hidden behind the door Mycroft can see his eye roll. Nevertheless he says, “I’ll see what I can do.” 

“Thank you.”

The door closes and Mycroft undresses and crawls beneath the duvet. The moment he closes his eyes he’s wide awake. 

“Oh damn,” he groans. “Sleep, you need to sleep.”

Despairingly, he tosses and turns on the – quite adequate – mattress in a wild-goose chase after the longed-for rest. 

_Mycroft_ , Sherlock’s voice suddenly whispers behind him just as he’s thrown himself around for the umpteenth time. 

“Sherlock,” he croaks, “oh Sherlock.”

 _You need to rest. Here, let me._ The covers are lifted, a gust of cold air travels over Mycroft’s back and then his brother’s lanky frame slips beneath the duvet, and snuggles up tight against him. Next a warm press of Sherlock’s soft lips lands on his nape.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft struggles to turn around but Sherlock holds him locked tight.

 _Sshh_ , he soothes, _sshh. Relax Mycroft, you know you can’t turn around, but it is me, your little brother. I came to help you fall asleep. I must have you well rested and alert for what is going to happen tonight. Here, let me._

“Sherlock, I… I told John. And oh… I must see you, please…”

_I know. And he responded beautifully, didn’t he? As I knew he would. You can’t look at me now, Mycroft. Not yet, but soon, I promise. Here, you can watch my hand._

“Your hand?”

Behind him, Sherlock chuckles. When Mycroft looks under the covers he finds Sherlock’s hand has indeed appeared there, emerging from the sleeve of his robe – thankfully not the purple one, but the smoky-grey satin one with the embroidered hexagonal pattern on the cuff, that hangs awaiting him in Mycroft’s closet. Long, supple fingers palm him through the brushed silk of his pyjama bottoms, and he arches up into the touch.

“Sherlock.”

 _Mycroft._ His name shakes itself out of Sherlock’s throat and a more urgent kiss is smoothed over his neck. 

The fingers have started to work on the buttons, tearing them out of the buttonholes, the inadvertent brushes and touches of his half-hard member through the silk rousing him.

 _There_ , Sherlock exclaims in triumph, tugging at Mycroft’s underwear to grasp him fully, greedily. He pulls down the foreskin once, agonisingly slow, and back up. Instantly, Mycroft is all hot and ready to reach completion, and he bucks up into the warmth of his brother’s palm. 

_Oh, you_ , Sherlock breathes hard behind him and mashes his own arousal against Mycroft, nuzzling his cleft. _You._

“Sherlock.” His hand closes over Sherlock’s, forcing him to go faster with short strokes that are nothing but a quick pull of the foreskin over the head and down again in a rush towards an explosion of heady pleasure first and sweet oblivion after. And oh, he can feel it, it’s a fire, raging in his testicles, in his pelvis, ready to leap out…

He groans deeply when ropes of sperm shoot forth to soil the hotel linen, shivering with the intensity of his orgasm. Sherlock strokes him through it, dabbing his nape with fervent kisses, murmuring praise, and drawing him close against his body. His hand, sticky and warm with Mycroft’s release, snakes upwards and his fingertips push Mycroft’s eyelids to with tender care. 

_Sleep now, brother dear._

“Yes,” Mycroft mumbles, drowsily. He snuggles down into the familiar, faintly bitter smell of sweat and sex and sperm, and then he falls asleep.

***


	16. Who loses and who wins; who's in, who's out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In front of the wardrobe mirror Mycroft draws himself up to his full height to inspect the overall effect of his attire. The suave shape regarding him nods curtly in approval of the figure he cuts. Satisfied with his outfit Mycroft throws his coat over his arm, picks up his umbrella – the caress of the sturdy blackthorn wood of its handle comfortingly solid against his palm – and exits the room to search for John Watson… and his enemy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies in advance. I was determined this should be the last chapter but I’m afraid it turns out I may need some more to bring this to a conclusion.

The room is dark when Mycroft wakes up. A glance at his watch tells him he’s slept for one and a half hours. The short rest has worked wonders; the mental and physical exhaustion he experienced earlier have been replaced by a strong sense of purpose. He swings his legs out of the bed, reaches for his mobile and thumbs the zero.

“Yes.”

“How are they?”

“Fine. Miss Morstan and Miss Hooper used the beds in 221B, Detective Inspector Lestrade slept on the sofa. He’s the most anxious to get out.”

“What are they doing now?”

“They’re playing Cluedo. Miss Morstan has won the first two rounds.”

“Good. Listen. If you haven’t heard from me by nine am tomorrow, you’re to inform them that they’re free to go.”

“Yes.”

Mycroft ends the call, tosses the phone on the night table, and strides into the bathroom. In the – primitive – shower stall his hand hovers vacillatingly over the cold water tap for roughly thirty seconds. Then, suddenly decisive, he turns it, and gasps and almost buckles under the Arctic cold of the vigorous spray. He throws his head back and faces the onslaught of the icy fall with his eyes wide open.

After his shower he shaves. He whips up his Aleppo soap into a thick lather and luxuriates in the exotic tang of olives and laurel permeating the comfortless surroundings of this typical English country inn bathroom as he swathes the rich foam onto his cheeks and throat. Deftly, he applies his razor, the silver and mother-of-pearl handle warm in his hand. 

A hesitant tap on the door reminds Mycroft of John’s promise to send up some tea. He wraps a towel around his hips and opens the door wide enough to accept a tray with a pot of tea – Mycroft wrinkles his nose in amusement at the unmistakeable tang of Twinings’ Orange Pekoe – a platter of Cream Lancashire cheese sandwiches and a plate bearing a thick slice of fruitcake. 

With gusto he polishes off the sandwiches as well as the cake and half the pot of tea. Replenished, he contemplates the contents of the wardrobe to decide upon his battle dress. In the end he selects a shirt in a light pearly-grey Royal Oxford fabric, with a slate Glen plaid suit. He sheathes his feet and calves in thin, knee-high stockings of black wool – nothing is more effective to render a man vulnerable than having him realise that a strip of hairy shin is peeping out from beneath his rucked up trouser leg – and slips on his dependable, black semi-brogues, brushed to a mirror-like shine. The next forty-five seconds he devotes to choosing his tie and pocket square. As ever, his innate sense for discrete elegance guides his choice. Of its own accord his hand reaches for dark violet silk with a neatly arranged pattern of smallish, pink dots. He smiles in approval at the inherent message of the colours – authority, power _and_ sophistication – and folds the tie around his neck into a perfect Windsor knot. The square he stashes into his breast pocket with a nonchalance bordering on the frivolous.

In front of the wardrobe mirror Mycroft draws himself up to his full height to inspect the overall effect of his attire. The suave shape regarding him nods curtly in approval of the figure he cuts. Satisfied with his outfit Mycroft throws his coat over his arm, picks up his umbrella – the caress of the sturdy blackthorn wood of its handle comfortingly solid against his palm – and exits the room to search for John Watson… and his enemy.

***

The relentless rain has petered out into a gentle drizzle when they walk out of the inn into the glaring dazzle of the lamps lighting the parking lot. High in the sky the full moon hides behind a thin blanket of clouds shrouding the earth. Her husband, the sun, shines on her face so brightly with his fiery gaze that her beam is strong enough to steer them along the road to Moran’s lair.

Mycroft unfolds his umbrella and offers his arm to John, who darts back with a look of astonishment on his features.

“Be sensible,” Mycroft scolds him, gently. “You’ve already ended up thoroughly wet once today and that unattractive pile is bound to be badly heated and unbearably draughty to boot. You’ll want to preserve all the warmth currently heating up your body.”

“For God’s sake, Mycroft,” John starts to argue, but then he laughs. “Oh, all right.”

“We’ll split up at the gate if that thought gives you comfort,” Mycroft promises.

“Just shut it,” John says. He grabs Mycroft’s arm and together they set off at a brisk pace.

***

The one and a half miles walk takes them twenty minutes. They’ve agreed upon going by foot earlier, reasoning the car is less likely to be tampered with in the inn’s remarkably busy parking lot than when parked at the roadside close to Moran’s house. During their walk the veil of clouds dissolves further. Mycroft lets go of John’s arm to shake out and refold his umbrella. Encumbered by her veils no longer, the moon highlights the road that nakedly snakes its way along the valley’s curve.

At eight pm precisely Mycroft raises his hand to ring the bell situated on the left side of the gate. He hasn’t pressed the button yet when – with a Twenty-First-Century swoosh belying their Nineteenth-Century outward appearance – the gates swing open by themselves. Tipping his chin, John flicks his eyes up towards the top of the pillar on the right. In the darkness, the eye of the CCTV-camera is barely discernible.

 _Nice trick_ , Mycroft mouths, and steps over the threshold, John at his side. Inside the confines of the park it’s murkier; the great firs block the moonlight, allowing not a glimmer to trickle through the intricate mass of twigs and branches. At the end of the drive a few lighted windows stand out against the shimmering silver of the tenebrous night.

After they’ve covered about eight feet a red dot flares up on one of the gate rods and dies out again. 

“What…” John begins. Quickly they turn towards each other. “Jesus fucking Christ,” swears John. “I bloody hate this.” He glares at the tiny red pinpoints on his chest.

“Yes,” murmurs Mycroft. “I must confess I’m with you in this. Most discomfiting. Still, we have little choice but to push on, do we? I’m convinced this is just the welcoming committee. Our host is very attentive, obviously. He must be looking forward to shaking our hands.”

“Oh, I’d rather not. Not if I don’t have to.”

“Unfortunately, in my line of work one has to shake hands repeatedly with individuals whose skin one would rather not touch. I always take great care washing my hands afterwards.”

They resume walking. The red dots travel over their chests as they proceed, momentarily falling away after they’ve gone about five yards, only to be picked up again an instant later. The drive up to the house appears to be crawling with snipers.

“One on each side at every ten yards, wouldn’t you say so,” Mycroft whispers.

“Yeah,” confirms John. “They might be following us, though.”

Mycroft perks up his ears. At his side he can almost hear John listening intently as well. The only sounds Mycroft discerns are the vague rippling of the firs’ twigs in the faint breeze and the abrupt loud clamouring of a flock of geese on the lake. The explosion of noise sends the lasers scattering in an erratic pattern over their bodies, but thankfully the men’s hands quickly steady themselves again, aiming straight for their hearts. 

Their own feet crunch on the gravel, but Mycroft is sure he would distinguish the swift pad-pad of running feet, a twig snapping under the sole of a shoe or even laboured breathing as the men ran ahead to take up a new position ahead of their marks in a relay race of terror. The only possible conclusion is that against the dark shapes of the trees black-clothed men are huddling close, aiming their gun as Mycroft and John walk past and passing the baton of their red dot on to the man awaiting them with his rifle under the next tree.

“Jesus, the place _is_ crawling with snipers,” John growls in an undertone.

“Indeed,” Mycroft confirms, cautious to keep his voice equally low. His gaze latches itself onto the lights of the house. Normally, the knowledge of being under constant observation by trigger-happy thugs who wouldn’t bat an eyelid while dispatching them to another world might have intimidated him, but all that interests him now is the idea of shortly seeing Sherlock again. 

Every step bringing him closer to the house, every second ticking away, shortens the distance travelled towards the moment he will see Sherlock for the first time in months. Or so he’s told himself since he learned of Moran’s name. However, what if Sherlock isn’t being kept prisoner here at all? He could be _anywhere_. Actually, regarding the fact that the community is such a small one, keeping Sherlock prisoner here suddenly seems an incredibly reckless undertaking. Safer by far to stash him in a basement somewhere in a city. Cities are anonymous; people pass countless others in the streets without ever really looking, not even mumbling an apology when they inadvertently bump into someone. Paying attention to another person might be dangerous, and, besides, most people are too busy surviving to notice what the neighbours are up to.

 _Oh God, how could you be so stupid to rely on hope?_ a voice in his head starts screeching at him, over and over and over and over.

By now they have arrived at the foot of the steps up to the front terrace, constructed out of the local stone. The dark slate glistens dully, beyond the reach of the diffuse cubicles of light painted by the windows. Slowly, they commence to ascend the stairs, leaving the red dots behind them. When Mycroft checks out John’s posterior he finds the dots have simply travelled from front to back.

The terrace is quite wide. They cruise the flagstone sea to the door, which, for all its impressive height and width, seems an inappropriately small entrance to such a huge mansion. Mycroft is convinced he feels Moran’s eye staring at him through the tiny peephole that’s set into the thick slab of oak. He expects the door to swing wide open any second but it remains forbiddingly closed.

“Maybe we should ring the bell,” suggests John, his finger already on the button. A cracking loud noise reverberates in the hallway, the echoes of the sound dying away slowly while they wait.

“What the…” John begins in his best army captain voice – or could it be Mycroft detects a faint hint of uneasiness beneath the bluster? – when everything around them is completely silent again.

“Perhaps our host is hard of hearing,” Mycroft offers. “He could hear well enough when I last met him, but, admittedly, that is a long time ago. Our best course of action would seem to ring again, John.”

“Yeah.” John’s finger hits the button again and holds it longer this time, the resulting racket booming through the house. “That should do the trick.”

“Yes,” Mycroft agrees. Hidden from John’s sight by the beneficent dark his hands have clenched themselves into fists, the nails digging deep into the flesh of his palms. The voice in his head has struck up a chant for Moran to open the damned door, drowning the voice of reason that is counting the seconds in slow, even tones. _…thirty-six, thirty-seven, thirty-eight, thirty-nine … two hundred and ninety-five, two hundred and ninety-six, two hundred and ninety-seven…_

At the count of three hundred the lights are cut off. A rapid patter of feet running up the terrace steps induces Mycroft to swivel around, but the circle of cold steel forced against his temple halts him.

“Don’t you _fucking_ move,” a voice hisses next to his ear. A spray of spittle landing on his jaw has him recoil in horror. Inside his chest his heart is hammering insistently away at his ribcage.

“We’re…”

“Or speak.” To stress the point the gun’s muzzle presses his temple even harder, bruising the skin, very nearly breaking it.

Mycroft decides it’s best to comply. More than anything he’d like to bring up his hands to still his wildly beating heart. Instead, he flicks his eyes towards John, a tightly-coiled battery of suppressed energy at his left, and the man next to the doctor, holding a gun to _his_ head. All his eyes can detect of the man in the murky gloom is his outline; the man’s a giant, longer even than Mycroft himself and almost twice as broad.

_He could snap your neck as easily as you’d snap a rabbit’s neck._

_Why go to the bother of twisting a neck? His_ pal _has a_ gun _trained against your temple._

_Oh, thanks for reminding. So helpful._

There’s nothing to it, but to wait, with the wicked circle of steel digging into their temples. So they wait, standing side by side between Moran’s men, on his front door steps. Mycroft is prepared to wait all night if Moran wants him to. His gaze locks itself on the peephole, invisible in the tenebrous darkness because Moran has pressed his eye to it, in order to observe their outlines, which must be all there is to discern in the inky blackness of the night.

An evanescent whisper of leather brushing against leather alerts Mycroft to the presence of a fifth man. He bites down on his lower lip to stifle his cry of surprise as hands, pleasantly soft and warm, suddenly clamp around his right lower leg. They commence a bold exploration of his form, insinuating themselves beneath the back of his coat to skim between his thighs and over his backside, slithering to his front to fondle his crotch.

Gritting his teeth Mycroft endures the hands’ intimate brushes in silence. When they have patted down every cubic inch of his body they fall away as abruptly as they first landed on his flesh. John’s quiet hiss informs him the hands have hopped over to the doctor’s body. 

The stiff denim of John’s jeans is harder to access than the supple cashmere of Mycroft’s suit and the hands linger far longer on John’s short figure than they remained on Mycroft’s. John’s unease at the sensation of the stealthily groping hands is almost palpable. Perhaps their current situation has brought forth memories of a similar scene in Afghanistan. To have to participate in such a deliberate act of humiliation would have upset John, regardless of whether he was a witness, a perpetrator or a victim.

At long last their assessor appears to be satisfied with his research. 

“Good boys,” he grunts and laughs. The rash sound rings through the air and startles their guards into squashing their guns even tighter against their wards’ temples. The speed of John’s breathing increases. The fabric of his lower trouser leg brushes Mycroft’s upper shin. For a moment he contemplates how odd it is to feel the brush of the wool over his skin – has the wind risen? – and then he realises his leg has started to tremble by itself. 

“Now give me that umbrella,” the voice growls.

The same moment the umbrella is yanked from Mycroft’s grip, the door is yanked open and light floods the terrace. Instantly, the gun falls away from Mycroft’s head and the twin clicks of the safety catches snaps through the night. Blinded by the bright light spilling through the door Mycroft blinks his eyelids repeatedly.

“Mr Holmes, Dr Watson,” a voice booms, all false bonhomie, and Mycroft is reminded instantly how much he loathed that voice with its irritating nasal twang marring the deep bass.

“Mr Moran,” he says, and notices the flicker of annoyance flaring up on Moran’s face before it’s buried again beneath the carefully cultivated veneer of exuberant, retired army colonel. He looks the part to perfection, dressed in russet Saxony Tweed over a merino spencer and flannel shirt with a floppy collar. The soft texture of the shirt contrasts sharply with the large hands emerging from the cuffs. Mycroft’s glance is irrevocably drawn to them. The skin on the back of the hands is rough and lightly tanned, even though it’s the midst of winter. While they stand assessing each other Moran flexes and bends his strong, thick fingers, curling them around an imaginary rifle. The former army colonel spends long hours outside in all weathers then, scouring the countryside in search of prey to stalk and kill.

“Come in, come in,” Moran breaks the spell, suddenly beckoning urgently for them to enter. “You must be freezing. My sincere apologies. We had a little trouble with the electricity but everything appears to be working properly again. You come in as well, lads,” this to the three men still guarding John and Mycroft. “I’ll have that umbrella, thank you.” 

Moran steps aside, holding the door wide open, an expression of concern for his guests’ well-being plastered to his features. Mycroft, sensing a brief hesitation in John, goes in first. The air stirs behind him as John and the men follow.

Inside, Mycroft’s eyes meet a scene of premeditated devastation. His lips quirk quickly as he takes in the Hollywood-perfect picture of a haunted house of horrors, straight out of the tales of Edgar Allen Poe. The overall effect is enhanced when the door falls shut, not with a laboriously elongated creak but a sudden loud thud.

_So much more definitive._

In accordance with traditional views on the sublime and all its stygian permutations, the hall is a high-ceilinged, cavernous chamber composed of innumerable nooks and crannies, panelled in dark oak. Under the oppressive crowding of so many square yards of intricately carved wood the eye swerves wildly in search of a means of escape. Inevitably, it is led to the copper railing of the winding staircase spiralling up to the next landing and those above, only to collide with the carved dome of an elliptical oculus that’s weeping wide rivulets of silvery moonlight onto the sombre cavity and its three occupants. The slate flagstones of the floor are covered by a woollen rug – a quite acceptable _Ardabil_ – that must have been the pride and joy of one of Moran’s forebears, and has now been reduced to the humble function of doormat, albeit an impressively large one. 

Meanwhile, John has advanced and perched himself at Mycroft’s right side. Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft notices John’s glance darting around the hall. He is, after all, an ex-RAMC man. Taking inventory of possible means of entry and departure – and furniture suitable for ducking behind in the eventuality of a firefight – must be second nature to him.

Also, surveying the field with a soldier’s eye could be useful, judging by the state of the Greuze painting hanging over the monstrously wide sideboard on the left side of the hall. Mycroft recognises the work instantly from the Interpol stolen works of art database where it has featured for the past decade. The canvas has changed careers recently, and now serves as a practice target sheet. While Mycroft might agree with the disapproving sentiment the painting must have coaxed from its abuser’s breasts – he’s always felt a slight nausea upon regarding the overly sentimental tableaux that are the painter’s specialty – he can never approve of the wilful destruction of a piece of art, however little he might like it. 

Wrinkling his nose he turns away, and his gaze travels over the scattered remains of smashed-up vases and _objets d’art_ until it comes to rest on his host, who stands observing him with a tiny smirk, half-hidden behind the walrus moustache.

God, that moustache. Mycroft remembers wondering how it was possible that someone living in the beginning of the twenty-first century would voluntarily disfigure his face by choosing to grow such an outrage against modern hygiene right under his nose. That had been Mycroft’s first impression. The next instant Moran had bared his teeth in a smile and opened his mouth and Mycroft had been glad for the chair the back of his knees bumped against when he drew back.

“So,” Moran drawls, stroking the shiny wood of the umbrella handle with thick fingers, red and rough from handling a gun in all weathers, “you’re not carrying a secret sword in there, are you?” 

Mycroft arches his eyebrows slightly. “That was an attempt at a joke, I presume,” he replies, icily. “I’m afraid I have to inform you it’s not even remotely funny.”

“Oh no,” Moran is quick to retort. “I’m deadly serious… Mr Holmes. I always am. Don’t tell me you still aren’t aware of the fact?”

He flicks his eyes up towards Mycroft. Surprisingly feminine, thick-lashed and a sparkling deep aquamarine with a dark rim around the iris, they are an incongruous sight in the rugged face, clashing violently with the moustache and the strong, yellowed teeth he has bared in a snarl that parades as a grin.

“I am… in fact,” answers Mycroft, using his advantage in height to stare back into Moran’s eyebrows rather than his eyes. “Hence I have been living in fear of an exceedingly dull evening ever since receiving your invitation.”

Moran’s grin grows a little wider. “As hasty to judge as ever, I see.” An exasperated sigh escapes from his throat. “May I advise you to mind your P’s and Q’s? I’ve prepared you a ‘smashing’ feast, Mr Holmes. You’ve kept me excessively diverted these past few months; I felt it was the least I could do to repay you.”

“You needn’t have troubled yourself. I’m afraid you’ve proven your idea of entertainment diverges widely from mine. It pains me to think you have gone to all the bother of spending money on my behalf, in the knowledge I won’t appreciate the merits of your blow-out.”

“Rest assured, Mr Holmes. All the main ingredients of my little ‘blast’ were acquired a long time ago. No reason for you to worry on my behalf over the expense.” Moran touches his heart in a mock gesture of obligation. “I am moved by your concern, though. Especially as my assets would instantly plumb that nasty little budgetary problem you’ve been in such a pickle over on behalf of your Chancellor of the Exchequer. Poor old England is in dire straits, isn’t she?” Turning to John, he continues, “Inconsiderate of the man, if you ask me, seeing as your acquaintance had far more pressing concerns to occupy him.”

Even the most unobservant person would notice the rigid tension in the muscles of John’s neck. “If you say so,” he answers with forced calmness. 

Moran watches him through narrowed eyes. “Jim was wrong about you,” he says at last, positioning himself right in front of John without any regard for personal space. “He told me you were the younger Holmes’ pet, but you’re not. Another prime example of my former associate’s many erroneous deductions, long may he rest in hell. You are actually the family pet, aren’t you?” 

A fresh insight appears to strike him, His nose wrinkles as he sniffs the air as eagerly as a hound that has caught a whiff of the fox’s trail. “Oh,” he utters, and his voice floods with sincere commiseration, “oh, how it must have stung, not to be let in on the masters’ plans. Aww, left tied to a tree out in the woods, poor lonely you. And the moment they return because they have use of you again, you start drooling and waggling your tail. Touching, really.”

John has clasped his lips so tight his mouth is a thin line pencilled onto his face. Moran steps even closer until his nose almost touches John’s. He may be smaller than Mycroft, but he still has enough height left to tower impressively over John. The falsely pleasant smile suddenly drops from his face. Instead, he stares down at John with a look of sincere disappointment. He clasps his hands behind his back, suavely controlled, and controlling them. Thus he has swept his gaze over countless of sleeping quarters, discovering a bed that wasn’t made up with the prescribed military precision, a rifle that wasn’t properly cleaned, a smudged pair of boots…

“Where’s your sense of dignity, Captain?” he barks loudly in a voice that must have sent shivers of fear rippling down the backs of countless fresh army recruits. “You’re ex-army, you _twat_! No army captain should grovel to a civilian the way you do. You’re a disgrace, to your regiment and to every man that gave his life to protect his comrades.” He’s worked himself up into such a stage of genuine anger the spittle flies out of his mouth in fat drops which glisten on John’s cheeks.

Slowly, John brings up his hand to wipe the globules of saliva away. His eyes are dark-blue bolts of compressed lightning. He opens his mouth but Mycroft interrupts.

“Unlike you, Mr Moran, Dr Watson was honourably discharged from the army at his own request. I don’t think you’re the right person to lecture Dr Watson on his behaviour.”

At least the remark serves to have Moran swivel on his heels to face Mycroft again. “Shut your _fucking trap_ ,” he bellows. “And it’s Colonel Moran to you. What do you think gives you the right to lecture people in their own hallway? Right now three of my men have trained their guns on you. One word is all they need, Mr Holmes.” 

Mycroft stares down on the reddened, growling face. The man is not completely playing a part, the presence of an ex-soldier appears to have awoken some primal instincts in Moran’s breast. “You promised me dinner,” he protests, as if mildly disappointed at the realisation he won’t be offered the meal after all.

“Err, they won’t kill you, Mr Holmes.” Vigorously, Moran recomposes himself. “Not yet. You’d just have to sit through your meal with a bullet in your knee. Excruciatingly painful, I’ve been told.” With the swift motion of a soldier sensing an enemy attack he pivots back to John. “Or is there another part of the body you’d recommend if one wants to cripple, inflict pain and not risk a too high chance of hitting an artery. What’s your professional opinion, doctor?”

“I think the knee will do,” John grits out. “And you’re even more of a total weirdo than Moriarty was.”

“Ah, I’m sincerely disappointed to hear you say so. But surely you know about the sticks and stones as well as I do. Believe me, after the mud Mr Holmes has chosen to hurl at me, your pathetic attempt at an insult doesn’t hurt me, at all.” Moran’s glance glides away from John’s face to the umbrella he’s still cradling in his hand. “Lovely piece of work this. Is that real silk? And just look at that beautiful wood. Here,” with a flick of his wrist he pitches the rain shield towards the man standing closest to him who plucks it out of the air with deft ease while keeping his gun trained on Mycroft’s kneecap. “The spoils of war. Our guests won’t need it any longer. Mind you, that’s a very expensive gift I’ve just graced you with.”

The man grins. “Thank you, Colonel.”

“You’re welcome,” Moran smiles and starts to rub his hands with an exaggeration of glee. “But what am I thinking of to keep you standing here in this draughty hall while we have a proper fire roaring inside. Sincere apologies for the woeful inadequacy of my manners. All due to the joys of greeting old friends, of course, but still. Come on, come on, it’s through there.” Clucking, he starts shooing them towards back of the hall. The last door on the left is wide open, next to what Mycroft deduces to be the door to the servants’ staircase, which is closed. 

“You can take up your posts outside, lads,” their host tells his sharpshooters. “With this little device I’ve everything under control. Make sure you pull the door shut behind you.”

From his right hand jacket pocket he whisks up an object that looks like a beamer remote control, rigged with an exceptionally large red button. He uses it to wave the men in the direction of the front door. Mycroft observes their departure and heaves a sigh of relief inwardly, as the door falls into the lock behind the last man. That means they’re rid of a few of them at least. A gasp from John, who’s already entered the dining room, induces him to whip his head around and follow John’s stare.

“Ah, you recognise it, Dr Watson?” Moran enquires in a pleasant tone behind him.

***


	17. I know when one is dead, and when one lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sherlock,” John is shouting and the next moment all the lights in the room are cut. Bewildered, Mycroft looks around him. Immediately a great weight is hurled against him and he crashes to the floor, Moran’s demented features hovering close above him, thrown into hideous relief by the light of the fire. Strong hands are clasped around his neck.

***

“Yes, I do.” Furious, John wheels around to confront Moran, who’s waiting for Mycroft to enter the room as well. “Take it off him, you sick fuck, take it off now!”

His finger points in the direction of the silent figure perched against the far wall. It is Sherlock, rigged out in a hideous, green parka with a fake-fur rim along the hood and a torn and filthy pair of jeans with legs that are too short for him. His bare feet appear to float, incandescently pale and vulnerable, above the scuffed oaken flooring. Against the hood’s edge his cheekbones stand out in sharp relief, snow-white ridges rising between his sunken cheeks and eyes, which are dull and listless beneath the unkempt mop of matted, lacklustre curls. 

At his side hovers another of Moran’s lackeys, a Sig Sauer M11-A1 pressed against Sherlock’s temple. The man shoots a quick glance in their direction and Moran immediately barks out an order in Russian, instructing the man to keep his eyes trained on his prisoner. 

_Oh, Sherlock, my darling. God, I’ll have him pay for this…_

Incoherent snippets of thoughts tumble through Mycroft’s brain. Outrage, distress, overwhelming joy and gratitude for Sherlock’s presence in the room, wry amusement at John almost going berserk over a coat while ignoring the threat of the gun held against his friend’s head.

Beneath the parka’s bulk Mycroft can see Sherlock has lost a stone at least, weight he couldn’t really afford to lose. His arms tremble under the burden of a silver tray with an ornate silver ice bucket, both heavily adorned with overwrought garlands of chiselled silver roses. Out of the bucket the neck of a bottle of _Louis Roederer_ – Mycroft can’t quite stifle the disparaging noise that escapes from his throat at this shocking pretense of good taste – rises from a veritable mountain of ice. Three ostentatiously cut lead-crystal champagne coupes, carefully arranged around the bucket, round off the hideous tableau of wealth gone astray. 

His eyes are still taking in the ensemble when a switch is thrown in Mycroft’s brain, flushing him with insight as to the reason of John’s acute distress. The green parka Sherlock is wearing must be the same coat Moriarty forced John to wear during the confrontation at the pool. All Moran will have to do to end their lives there and then is to push the large red button that will cause the Semtex to explode.

There’s nothing Mycroft would rather do than wheel around as well to close his hands around the throat of the _vile creature_ standing behind him and throttle him until his eyes come bulging out of their sockets, his tongue lolling out of his throat.

Instead, he reaches out to restrain his brother’s friend, resting his hand lightly on John’s shaking arm. The doctor’s face is rigid with anger and loathing. Mycroft fully condones both sentiments, but they aren’t exactly helpful in their current predicament. 

_You’re so thin. And your poor feet – oh God, those bruises on your throat!_

“John,” he cautions. The sight of his dear brother literally dressed to kill is as gruesome as Moran intended it to be, but there’s something wrong with the whole set-up. For how does the man expect to survive the blast that’s to send them all up into the heavens first to gently float down into hell thereafter? Mycroft rotates his head to have a good gander at their host.

The ex-Colonel is enjoying himself. If he weren’t holding the remote, he would be rubbing his hands again. Now he contents himself with smiling as benignly as a great white shark that’s about to spread its jaws wide and spear its chosen victim with razor-sharp teeth.

“I confess your language disappoints me, Dr Watson,” he reproves, mildly, “as do your universally lauded nursing traits. These rooms are impossible to heat properly. Surely you wouldn’t want your best friend to suffer from the cold? He hasn’t exactly been in tiptop condition lately. Quite apart from the fact he’s had to slave away this past week, what with it being the Holiday season? Fifty guests all in all, each of them roaring for some loving attention.” 

Confidentially, he winks at Mycroft, clapping his hand to Mycroft’s shoulder in outrageous imitation of the same intimate gesture between old friends exchanging amusing stories in the billiard room of their club. “I’m all too aware some of my guests can be quite strenuous in their demands, so you’ll be delighted to hear they all assured me that he managed to satisfy their needs more than competently. Some of them even went so far as to praise him for a true genius.”

Mycroft shudders beneath the protection of his jacket. Christ, has Sherlock really had to live through every nightmare Mycroft’s feverish brain had concocted for him? _I’ll strangle the bastard._ Surreptitiously, he glances in Sherlock’s direction again. The skin on his ankles is chafed raw. Mycroft supposes the same holds true for his wrists. In the deep shadow thrown by the tray he can’t discern them properly.

“You fucking monster!” John snarls at Moran, straining against Mycroft’s tightened grip on his arm. “Jesus, Mycroft…”

“ _Colonel_ Moran is enjoying himself at your expense, John,” Mycroft warns. “I told you our ideas of diversion don’t collide,” he chides Moran next. “You can’t expect me to rejoice at your tales of the rape of my beloved… brother.”

This easy inference of their incestuous relationship unhinges Moran for an instant. A lukewarm spark of satisfaction flares up in Mycroft’s chest. That’s one bomb disposed of. The obvious rage flashing over the man’s obnoxious face shows quite clearly that he’d been looking forward to dropping it offhandedly some time during the conversation, to confuse John and make him turn against Mycroft and Sherlock both. His small victory adds fuel to the tiny flame burning in Mycroft’s heart. Rigorously, he tamps it down. He won’t allow himself to feel elation. Not when Sherlock is still collapsed against the wall, battling his own arms to keep the tray upright and close to his chest. Thankfully, he appears to be immersed in the task and oblivious to the gun held close to his head.

“Ah, so Dr Watson already knows his flatmate is an inveterate pervert,” Moran recovers himself. “And yet he’s chosen to accompany you on your rescue mission that will end in certain death. Hope springs eternal, indeed.”

“Clearly, you’ve never grasped the concept of friendship,” Mycroft says, silently adding, ‘nor that of love.’

Moran laughs his mirthless laugh. “‘Man is a wolf to man’, Mr Holmes. That’s the motto I’ve always lived by, and it’s served me well enough.”

“The adage ‘man is something sacred for man’ might have served you better, _Colonel_. It wouldn’t have led to your dismissal from the army, for instance.”

“You quite relish living in the twilight zone, don’t you?” Moran responds, caressing the red button with long strokes of the pad of his thumb. “Remarkable, for a Whitehall slug like you. Well, let’s see how you like this. I promised you a blast and I’m always true to my word. Stand back, if you please. You too, Dr Watson.”

His thumb presses down.

***

Despite Moran’s promise – and, to his immense relief, in accordance with Mycroft’s calculations – the world doesn’t explode. Anticlimactically, a soft whirring noise arises in the dark corner opposite theirs and a mannequin, its feet bolted to a small plateau, wheels towards the middle of the room. Mycroft is about to turn and enquire for an explanation when the sound of splintering glass and a bullet swishing into the room redirect his gaze just in time to watch the bullet bury itself into the figure’s head.

“Fucking hell,” John grits out.

In the meantime a mobile has materialised in Moran’s left hand. “Thank you,” he’s saying into it. “A straight hit. My guests are properly impressed. Danila will join you shortly. Don’t shoot _him_.”

He disconnects the call and turns to Mycroft. “Just a small demonstration of the accuracy of my men. I trained them myself.”

“Impressive,” Mycroft comments. His furtive glance to the other side of the room tells him the little display of shooting skills hasn’t caused Sherlock to stir in his place. Naturally, coolly dodging flying bullets is part and parcel of his profession. Mycroft hopes fervently that’s the reason for Sherlock’s immobility. All other possible explanations he pushes into the cupboard at the back of his mind. They’re no use to him now. He’ll search them later, once they’ve safely made it out of the building. 

“Thank you.” Moran accepts the compliment with grace. “It took me a while, but now they deliver the goods quite handsomely. So useful.” 

Tenderly stroking his moustache he lets his gaze drift over Mycroft. “I say, though, you don’t _look_ that impressed. Disappointing, for it shows that, in the end, you must be profoundly stupid. Well, there’s nothing to it. Allow me to talk you through our evening.”

“Please,” bows Mycroft.

“I’ll be brief. My men have this room covered. Once we’ve seated ourselves and rid ourselves of Danila over there, your brother is free to move around, he’ll be the one serving you your last meal. If one of us as much as rises from the table, he ends up with a bullet in his head.” 

Digging his nails into the flesh of his palms to remain calm, forcing himself not to flit a glance in Sherlock’s direction, Mycroft answers, “I see. Obviously, my wish is to prevent such an outcome at all costs. Dr Watson and I won’t so much as stir a hair on our head. You yourself are the weak link in your proposal. How do you expect us to trust you not to suddenly raise yourself?”

“Yeah,” John butts in aggressively.

“That’s the beauty of the arrangement,” Moran beams at them, “you can’t.” Paying no heed to John he addresses himself solely to Mycroft. “I hold all the aces, Mr Holmes, as I have all these months. For the person reputed to be the cleverest man in England you haven’t been such a formidable opponent. All it took was to catch you unawares, and you’ve been a lovely fat fish trashing around in my net ever since. Right now that smart brain of yours is spinning with schemes to save your _beloved_ brother, but you’d better be careful. One false move and I’ll blow us all to smithereens. Two quick taps will end it all. ” Moran holds up the remote and raises his eyebrows slightly. For an answer Mycroft tips his head to indicate he has understood every word. Moran’s teeth flash up beneath the moustache.

“What do you…” John begins, but Moran interrupts him. “You really are rather slow, aren’t you?” he says in an exasperated voice. “Your undying devotion must be limitless to serve as recompense for putting up with you. Or are you also adept at retrieving ducks and geese?”

Over the top of Moran’s head Mycroft signals at John to ignore Moran’s taunting. 

Fortunately, their host’s stance suggests he doesn’t expect John to answer him. “Shall we?” he asks genially instead, and saunters over towards a small table in front of the huge fireplace where the flames of a roaring fire leap up into the chimney. “Make yourselves comfortable. You’d do best not to shed your coats. That fire doesn’t give off any warmth at all.”

He chooses the chair closest to the fire – and to the wall – himself and gestures for them to take a seat. John aims for the chair facing the fire and Moran. Mycroft ends up between them with his back to the window. 

The table top almost sags under a veritable cornucopia of porcelain, silver and crystal heaped on a snow-white, damask tablecloth. The cloth being too large for the table, yards of the precious fabric surge over the floor, transforming the sturdy oak chairs into pieces of flotsam to which helpless shipwreck victims cling, bobbing on the white froth of a heaving sea. From beside his plate Mycroft lifts a napkin that’s at least three feet in length. 

Presumably one of Moran’s female forebears was a great lover of roses as a representation of the flower symbol of love and beauty graces every surface. From the shiny damask to the feet of the candlesticks, the scroll lining the handles of the cutlery, the engravings below the rims of the glasses, the – quite beautiful – pictures of the _Felicite Parmentier_ rose painted on their plates, to the elaborate table piece in the centre of the table the queen of flowers reigns supreme. The carefully composed arrangement of Victorian bourgeois taste gone haywire clashes violently with the rest of the room. 

The chamber must have been magnificent once, if rather eclectic, with an ostentatious, glittery chandelier hanging from a ceiling that’s a writhing mass of yet more roses. Now, few of the elaborately cut crystal pendants adorn the silver frame, the shards swept casually into a corner. The dark oak parquet looks scuffed and worn, a great scorch-mark near the window further marring the surface. An unremarkable painting of drooping flowers – more roses still – and fruit long past its prime graces the wall opposite the window. Mycroft doesn’t recognise the work, so he surmises it has been the lawful property of Moran’s family ever since one of his ancestors decided to acquire the work in a fit of either pique or acute mental distress.

In strong contrast with the heavy pomposity of the room’s furnishings, the curtains are made of a flimsily light material, billowing gently in the stream of air flowing through the shattered window. The curtains are a rush job – their edges trail over the floor – replacing the, here Mycroft shudders, most likely rose-patterned originals. Their object is easily understood. They screen the view from the room and define the stage for the shadow play to be acted by the room’s inhabitants for the benefit of Moran’s men huddling outside with their rifles at the ready. 

“My sincere apologies for the cramped accommodation,” Moran offers once they’re all seated. “Sadly, the dining table didn’t ride out last week’s festivities. You won’t profit from its length, but it was sturdy oak and will do its best to keep you warm.” Among the flames Mycroft can indeed discern what must once have been a table leg.

“You must be a desperate man, _Colonel_ ,” he forwards. His foot fights the excesses of damask in a search for John’s. At long last he finds it and presses his own against it. After a moment John presses back.

Meanwhile, the ex-Colonel is busy arranging the remote at his right hand, among the excess of tableware. Not until he’s satisfied with its exact position does he look up to shoot Mycroft his shark grin, hand hovering near the remote. “Sometimes it all becomes too much, doesn’t it? Especially when one has to remain hidden at the back of the stage. To be frank, I’d already given up on you. Excuse me.”

In harsh Russian he speaks to the man guarding Sherlock, telling him to make himself scarce. The man grunts and bends to pick up the rifle resting next to his leg. Then he strides towards the curtains that cover a whole wall of the room, and lifts the flimsy material to duck behind them. A cold gust invades the room as a pair of doors is opened to let the man out.

“That’s better, isn’t it?” Moran switches to Mycroft again, “just the four of us.” 

“Infinitely,” Mycroft agrees pleasantly. The remote, he notes, is lying out of his reach as well as John’s. It’s impossible for him to extend his arm in front of Moran and suddenly grab it. John’s arm is too short to bridge the width of the table. They’ll have to find a means to distract him.

“Well, Sherlock, what are you waiting for? That champagne isn’t getting any colder,” Moran yells at Sherlock. “Your brother and I are on a first-name basis,” he confides in Mycroft, “after all, we’ve shared the same home for months now. Less intimate than sharing a flat, to say nothing of sharing a bed, but we’ve become _great pals_ nevertheless.”

A quiver ripples through Sherlock’s form and he dislodges himself from the wall to start a tentative journey across the room. He nearly staggers under the weight of the tray but reaches the table without mishap and succeeds in arranging his burden amidst the clutter. 

“Oh, just look at him, such sheer stupid determination and bravery,” Moran comments in a disinterested tone. “Yes, it’s all right, Dr Watson. You can lay a comforting hand on your friend’s arm, if you wish. Unfortunately, I can’t guarantee he will appreciate your commiseration. We had to drug him up to the eyeballs, otherwise I don’t think he would have been able to _move_.”

Observing Mycroft slyly he prattles on, “I’ll say this for your brother, Mr Holmes. He cost me a fortune in sedatives, but he more than repaid me in all the work I got out of him. Who’d have imagined he would prove himself to be such an asset in my deal with some Columbian contacts. I’d surmised they’d be interested in blondes and provided accordingly, but no – one look at Sherlock here, and I could have spared myself the expense of having those Ukrainian youngsters flown in. The Columbians were mad for him, even though one of them ended up with a split lip. Southern temperament, I suppose.”

“Could you stop this, please?” John snarls, his hand clutching the handle of his knife. “You’re disgusting stories make me sick.”

“I’m most sorry to hear you say so. Especially as we’ve run out of _Alka-Seltzer_ , I believe. You’ll have to make do with a nip of champagne. I always find it works wonders on a queasy stomach.”

John glares at him before cutting him out in favour of turning to Sherlock. “Sherlock,” he urges, his hand closing over Sherlock’swhich is just then distributing a glass to John’s place. “Sherlock, look at me.”

Sherlock doesn’t react. Gently but decisively he dislodges his hand from beneath John’s to place a glass in front of Moran and push one over to Mycroft with slightly trembling fingers. He proceeds to open the champagne, managing to uncork the flask with a discreet pop.

“Excellent,” praises Moran, holding up his glass for Sherlock to fill. Mycroft doesn’t look up when the slender hand holding the bottle appears in front of him. His eyes latch onto the rope burns disfiguring the write skin of the wrist. Beneath the table he is twisting and knotting his napkin into a tight cord with a sturdy knot in the middle to keep his hands occupied and desist from throwing his arms around Sherlock’s waist to pull him close. He’s going to _kill_ the bastard, even if he doesn’t know how – yet. For now all Mycroft can do is encourage Moran’s exuberance, watch and wait as the _scoundrel_ rollicks in his triumph. He’s already made his first mistake in disclosing the remote control’s workings. If Mycroft keeps feeding his ego – distracting it by throwing scraps to gloat over and gobble before snuffling for the next titbit – it’s bound to explode before he has a chance to set off that blasted bomb jacket. Perhaps Mycroft can even afford to rile the ex-Colonel, as long as he immediately smoothes it over again. Yes, that should do the trick.

After Sherlock has filled Moran’s glass as well, he replaces the bottle in the bucket and returns to his former position on the other side of the room.

Mycroft gives his improvised garrotte a last sharp tug, rests it in his lap and grips his glass by the stem.

“Do you wish to propose a toast?” Moran asks, pleasantly. 

“I’d rather not,” Mycroft replies. “In drinking to your health I would be dissembling.”

“Oh, always the perfect gentleman, aren’t you. Pity. I’ll most happily drink to your untimely demise.”

“Which you’ve figured will be yours as well.”

“Exactly.”

“Excuse me,” John says, “but what are you two going on about?”

“Our meeting with death, John. The _Colonel_ hasn’t rigged out Sherlock in that affront to the aesthetic sensibilities just for the sake of upsetting you.”

“Don’t you like it?” Moran asks, throwing a glance in Sherlock’s direction. “Jim chose it. I agree with you his style left something to be desired, what with those flashy Westwood suits? However, this coat is actually one of his more judicious purchases. A very sturdy fabric and lots of handy pockets, which was exactly what we needed. It’s very heavy, you know?”

“You’re just boasting,” butts in John. “If you set off that bomb you’ll die as well.”

“My, aren’t you a clever pet?” Moran smiles benignly.

“What the _Colonel_ means, John,” clarifies Mycroft, “is that he’s mortally ill.” He redirects his attention to Moran. “Cancer, isn’t it? Of the pancreas?”

A sour look flashes over Moran’s face, immediately replaced by the false, cheery countenance he’s been wearing since he bade them welcome. “Indeed,” he says. “You should be the doctor.”

“A logical deduction, nothing more,” Mycroft corrects in a humble tone.

“Awfully smart all the same,” Moran concedes with a blithe wave of his left hand. The champagne sloshes over the rim of the glass. “Hey, Sherlock! You’re not paying proper attention to my guests. Come over here to refill our glasses.”

“You’re nothing better than that moronic cabbie, Jeff Hope,” spits John.

Briefly, Moran scrunches his eyes shut, as if praying to some higher being to give him strength. “My dear Dr Watson,” he grates, once he’s opened them again, “I object most vehemently against the comparison. Jeff Hope was a degenerate and a sadist who got a kick out of the mental agony of his victims, having gone to great lengths to ensure they’d choose the wrong bottle. I, however, as I just informed you, am fully prepared to die together with you and your friends. Speaking of whom, how _is_ Miss Morstan?”

“What?” John utters, looking stunned.

“The lovely Miss Morstan. The woman who nursed your broken heart.” Moran holds up his glass for Sherlock who acquits himself of his task with difficulty, concentrating hard not to spill any of the fluid.

“Miss Morstan is safe and well, _Colonel_ ,” Mycroft assures their host – and hopefully John – with a tiny nod of his head. “A charming woman, John is a very lucky man. Thank you for enquiring after her.”

“You sound remarkably confident,” Moran quips back.

“She was so the last time I checked. I have no reason to suppose her situation has deteriorated in any way since.” Placidly, he nips his champagne, and replaces his glass on the table. “Amusing, isn’t it? How often true quality steers clear of ludicrous expense. No more champagne for me, Sherlock.”

Moran’s face flushes, his eyes searching for the remote control. The comforting knowledge his instrument of total destruction still rests next to his right hand helps him regain his composure. The grin reappears beneath his moustache as he grips his glass again and takes a deliberate swig.

“Ah, you place complete trust in your man. Even after the Anthea fiasco. Have you learned nothing then? I must say you’re setting a new standard for thick-headedness.”

“Oh, I learned a lot,” Mycroft airily waves away Moran’s remark. “Hence my certitude regarding Miss Morstan’s safety. And, please do forgive me for forestalling your fun, Mrs Hudson’s, Miss Hooper’s and Detective Inspector Lestrade’s as well.”

“Pray explain yourself,” Moran pretends to be all ears.

“You didn’t ‘buy’ Anthea.” At the mention of her name the figure of his former personal assistant flits through his mind, and he realises he hasn’t thought of the woman he once relied on all day. “It was thwarted love that drove her into your claws, and thanks to the story of Medea, you know as well as I that thwarted love is the most vicious motivator of all. My man, however, is comfortably married and has fathered three children he is inordinately proud of. There’s no reason to surmise he will ever be remotely interested in me, other than as the man who provides him and his family with an – I’d say ample – means of living. Besides, if you had bought him he would have warned you against this overly dramatic set-up. He’s a staunch advocate of the quick kill. Now, to disregard his advice, _that_ , in my experience, would be a truly stupid thing to do.”

“Hmm, yes. Clever, Mr Holmes.” Abruptly, Moran focuses on John again. “You believed me though, didn’t you?”

The tip of John’s tongue makes a quick swipe across his lower lip. “You’re a bastard,” he says.

“And you’re a dull record playing the same tune over and over,” retorts the ex-Colonel. “Right. Sherlock, you can start serving the soup.”

Sherlock engages again in his slow promenade to the table to pick up the tray with the champagne bucket and deliver it to the sideboard on the other side of the room. Stiffly, he kneels in front of it and opens a door to reveal a hot cupboard containing several serving dishes. He grasps hold of a tureen and carries it over to the table.

“Good lad,” Moran applauds him. “Now ladle it up. Lady Curzon soup, Mr Holmes. My favourite. You’re not a vegetarian, are you?”

“No. I don’t believe in consuming threatened species, though.”

“Ah well, the turtle should have fought back. Nature didn’t endow them with those savage beaks for nothing. Fight or die, another of my mottos. Yes, thank you.” This to Sherlock, who just then places a half-filled plate in front of Moran with painstaking precision. “Tell me, Mr Holmes,” he continues, “how did you do away with Anthea?”

“I shot her.” 

The soup ladle rattles against the side of the tureen. “Careful, that’s my great-grandmother’s best china,” Moran warns, sending Sherlock an annoyed look. Drugged and oblivious Sherlock persists in pulling up the ladle with a trembling hand.

“A bit unimaginative, isn’t it? After all, she was the one responsible for poor Sherlock’s plight.”

“Her awareness of his plight was punishment enough, I believe. Torture should only be applied to extract information that would otherwise not have been obtained. The executioner who derives pleasure from his victim’s cries for mercy is a morally reprehensible being.” Mycroft swallows on the bile rising in his throat, and he scrunches his eyes shut, for a moment only, but it serves well enough, to prevent himself from gazing at his brother. _Oh God_ , he prays fervently, God, please, please grant it was never so bad that he was forced to beg. To have humiliation added to his mental and physical injury. Oh God, how revolting. Unacceptable! 

In the periphery of his vision Sherlock’s hands appear. Incandescent, almost transparent they sway down towards the garden of virginal roses on the tablecloth to carefully arrange the plate in front of Mycroft. The sharp smell wafting up into his nostrils nearly makes him gag.

“Thank you,” he manages to say. Sherlock gives no indication of having heard and floats around John, back to his tureen. “Please,” Mycroft smiles at Moran who sits observing him with a tiny, ugly smirk on his features. “Anthea’s ending doesn’t really interest you. John and I, on the other hand, would very much like to hear how you duped Moriarty into killing himself?”

His question causes Moran’s face to light up brighter than a Christmas tree at Fortnum and Masons. He caresses his moustache with an indulgent hand, his eyes glittering with self-satisfaction.

“I thought you’d never ask,” he hums, a flush of surprised pleasure on his cheeks. “You’re sure you don’t want any soup? Pity.”

With his left hand he plies his spoon to his plate and starts eating with relish.

“I met Jim shortly after I was relieved of the Queen’s hospitality. He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he had plenty of ideas. In the end, that’s what did Jim in; he wasn’t interested in the small details, always going for the big picture. Unlike Sherlock here, who must have spent years in the past teaching himself how to slip his bonds and use the tine of a fork to force open a lock. We got it all on candid camera, of course. I’m not _that_ gullible.”

Out of the corner of his eye Mycroft notes Sherlock’s hand trembles as he places John’s plate in front of him. With his left hand he presses the knot of his makeshift garrotte reassuringly against his thigh. John pushes the plate away. The gesture has Moran crumple his moustache in amusement.

“Imagine poor Sherlock’s dismay when his first sight of freedom was the fist that punched him in the face,” Moran remembers with a horrible look of fondness. “But I forget, I was telling you about Jim. That brother of yours has a nasty way of making himself the focus of attention, Mr Holmes. Jim now. Oh my, Mr Holmes, I swear, even though I couldn’t stand that little Irish wisenheimer in the end, the man was a true genius. When we first set out in the world together we had the perfect partnership. I provided the money and the organisation, he provided the ideas. Oh, he was desperate to play with the big boys, but he was a worthy investment. You’ve had him tossed into a nameless grave no doubt, a crying shame in my opinion, for he deserved a headstone proclaiming him the King Midas of crime. Every scheme he conceived made the cash register ring; the money just kept pouring in. Blackmail, prostitution, narcotics, terrorism, whatever we turned our hands to, sooner rather than later we reigned supreme.”

Moran halts, gazing expectantly between Mycroft and John both. 

“Pray continue,” murmurs Mycroft, nudging John’s foot with his own to demand his assistance.

“And Moriarty became a consulting criminal,” John complies.

“Indeed. We set our partnership sailing and it ran as smooth as a line of coke up a city boy’s nose. Jim strutted on the stage, doing his act, and I sat in the background, doing the accounts. However, sooner or later all good things must come to an end. No doubt you’re aware, Dr Watson, after having shared a flat with one for more than a year, that geniuses have the tendency to get easily bored. To alleviate his ennui Jim started sampling some of the goods too extensively, in less than half a year he ruined his nasal septum. After he’dd nearly quashed some major deals through his loud-mouthed arrogance, I encouraged him to keep himself happily occupied with helping people find nasty ways to torment each other. That was his true specialty, I believe. But he soon tired of all those petty people with their pathetic, little insults and their pathetic, little yearnings for rendition. And _then_ he learned of Sherlock’s existence.”

The ex-Colonel shoots a casual glance in Sherlock’s direction, who has by now again retired to his place in front of the opposite wall.

“Your brother cuts a pretty enough picture if one is into lanky, outlandish types I suppose,” he remarks offhandedly. “You must be, Mr Holmes, to you your sibling’s attractions were strong enough to override the Westermarck effect. I can’t say I understand, exactly, but then, I’ve always been one for buxom redheads. Jim, however, after catching his first glimpse, had nothing on his brain but Sherlock here. Can you imagine what it must be like to live with an obsessed Jim Moriarty? I became heartily sick of it within a week. But then _I_ learned about little Sherlock’s _Big Brother_.”

Mycroft’s insides clench down on themselves. Moran lifts the spoon to his mouth, opens his lips, inserts the spoon and bites down on it with his strong teeth, grinning at Mycroft.

“Jim never knew about _my_ obsession with regard to a certain minor government official. I’d spun him a story about my voluntary retirement from the army when we first met, and he bought it, mainly, I think, because he regarded me as nothing but a chip and pin machine. Dangerous, that. But you see, that’s another trait geniuses share. Their tendency to underestimate other people.”

“So,” Mycroft interjects, “you’re not a genius, I take.”

“Oh no,” Moran replies straightaway, “if I’d been you would never have unravelled my lucrative sideline, now would you?”

“Your co-workers weren’t exactly smart.”

Moran lays down the spoon. “Such delicate phrasing. _Total morons_ , all of them! No, Jim was a far better choice. Except, he drove me nuts. Isn’t that the correct expression?”

“Could you get on with it?” John horns in, sounding exasperated.

“My, Dr Watson, doesn’t my explanation have enough entertainment value for you? Or are you looking forward to your death already?” Moran asks, eyebrows raised in puzzlement nearly all the way up to the rose on the ceiling above.

“Neither,” John grits out. “Just get on with the story.”

“As you wish.” Moran tips his head slightly in John’s direction. “I can’t say I have forgiven you for sending me from my regiment in disgrace, Mr Holmes. I’ve never been one to turn the other cheek, and besides, army life suited me down to the ground. The first two years, until I met Jim, I was afraid I’d end up raving in an asylum. After that, I was too busy to get the show on the road and keep it running smoothly, to heed the resentment simmering inside me, but it sat waiting quietly in the back of my mind all along. Initially, the thought of Jim, with his sick and twisted mind, getting hold of your brother, delighted me. When I learned of the enmity existing between the two of you, I was rather put out, because I assumed your brother’s abduction and subsequent death wouldn’t affect you too much. Did you notice that great stag head hanging next to the staircase in the hall, Mr Holmes? He bore the brunt of my disappointment. I didn’t shoot him; I did him in with my knife.”

“Jesus Christ!” John exclaims in disgust. Involuntarily, Mycroft shudders at the savagery of the picture Moran’s boast whips up in his mind. He pictures the man wrestling with the beast, slashing away with the knife at the animal’s back, its neck, the blood flowing and draining the hapless, frightened creature of its strength, and suddenly the animal is transformed into Sherlock, struggling wildly against the body that’s forced him down to the ground, his eyes rolled back in his head in fear, while the hand fisted in his curls pulls… _No!_ Deliberately, driving his nails into the flesh of his palm in a wake-up call, Mycroft pushes the image to the back of his mind.

“The poor beast,” is all he says. 

Moran smirks and looks down at his hands. “I’ve always been strong,” he murmurs, his voice unexpectedly soft. “This damned cancer.”

“My apologies for not commiserating with your predicament,” Mycroft comes back. “You must have been overjoyed when Anthea contacted you.”

“Oh, I _was_. Just a moment, please. I’ll have some more soup first. Hey, Sherlock!” Moran shouts. Sherlock staggers towards the table to see to Moran’s culinary needs. Once he’s finished, he turns and nearly trips over his feet in doing so.

“Watch it, Sherlock,” threatens Moran. “Has he always been this clumsy?” he enquires of Mycroft in a tone of complaint. From his side of the table John scowls at the ex-Colonel, his whole form poised at the ready to jump up and deliver him to a fate worse than that of the wild, innocent creature which once roamed this district in the firm belief of its invincibility. 

“Your accusation is unjustified,” Mycroft answers in as placid a voice as he can muster. “Sherlock clearly isn’t himself, you admitted just now to being responsible for his current state of lessened awareness.” He pauses and then he adds, after consideration, “Though it is disagreeable indeed to have one of the servants make a fool of himself in front of the guests. I remember a highly embarrassing incident during the evening our parents hosted in honour of His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales shortly after my twenty-first birthday. One of the hired staff came in bearing a tray laden with side dishes, tripped over the rug and ended up in a heap of assorted vegetables at barely twenty yards from the royal feet. Naturally, His Royal Highness most graciously ignored the execrable spectacle. I still wonder how my poor mother managed to overcome the mortification.”

His host stares at him uncomprehendingly, mouth slightly agape, but Mycroft hasn’t delivered the little anecdote for his amusement. He hopes fervently that Sherlock, in defiance of his apparent stupor, has been following the conversation and understood Mycroft’s hidden message. His foot nudges John’s again, signalling the import of his story.

The described dinner had indeed taken place, but thankfully, the incident Mycroft has just detailed, had not. The eyes of the fourteen-year-old adolescent – who'd openly declared total war on the rest of the world – had breathed fire and ice when he was informed that his parents expected him to attend and to behave himself. Sherlock had thrown a tantrum that lasted a week, and sat through the dinner – his father’s stern gaze brooking no argument – fuming silently in his chair, which was positioned as far as possible from that on which His Royal Highness The Prince of Wales perched. He looked quite adorable in his evening clothes, though this was a detail Mycroft only remembered later, once his mind had overcome its natural inhibition against lingering over his brother’s charms. The dinner had gone beautifully; the glances of relief alternating with happiness exchanged by their parents increasing as the evening wore on.

“Anthea,” Mycroft now prods _his_ host. Moran blinks, his hand swerving to the remote, but then he smiles.

“Ah, yes, Anthea. Foolish Anthea. Envisioning herself as the consort of her Zeus, only to discover he was more interested in… ah, it seems even the Greeks couldn’t imagine such depravity, well, let’s say Ganymede then. Imagine my delight when it was brought to my attention that your charming personal assistant was seeking for assistance to revenge herself on you and the object of your passion, and my excitement when she told me who that object was. Ah, Mr Holmes, you’d dashed all her hopes. She was so very, very disappointed in you.” 

He grins. “Hell hath no fury… Damn it, she was a woman who was hard to please. A mercurial person, Mr Holmes. So impatient at first for the dirty deed to be done, then, once her rival was out of the way, plaguing me with demands to release him. A conscience can be such a nuisance. Good thing you offed her, Mr Holmes, for I was tempted hard to arrange it myseIf.”

“I didn’t derive any pleasure from it, I assure you.”

“No, I suppose not. You didn’t hesitate, though, I gather, not for one tiny second. But Anthea is not that important, is she? She never made it to the Pantheon. Picture me, Mr Holmes, in my chair in front of the boathouse, staring at those grey waters and searching for a way to kill two birds with one stone. Get rid of Jim, get hold of your little brother here and watch you dance. And then Jim, the sorry bastard, launched his blitzkrieg without a warning.”

Dabbing his lips with his napkin he continues, “I was livid. We had spoken of it before of course, I was into the game, but we hadn’t settled on a date yet and I wasn’t quite ready for the part I wished to play. But Jim was restless, his little den of pleasure was ready and waiting for its occupant, a million quid he’d spent on it, not that I minded as long as it kept him happy and occupied, he oversaw the building works himself. Soundproofed not even to mention that you could drop a bomb right on top of it and it would remain intact. Anyway, Dr Watson here was meant to perish in that horrid swimming pool while Sherlock was to be snatched away by a helicopter… oh, rather like Ganymede, actually.” 

A lecherous smile sweeps over his features. “Though I doubt whether he would have been asked to pour the wine. Rather, he was to serve as the vessel.”

Mycroft clamps down on the shudder of revulsion pricking at the base of his neck. “So you pulled Miss Adler out of your hat,” he spurs instead.

“Indeed. I knew she was searching for a partner to clinch what she considered to be a lucrative deal – well, it would have been a lucrative deal. After all, you’ve seen the price she asked – but I had other things on my mind. Essentially, yes, she was another ace on my sleeve. Of course she never knew who I was; she worked under the illusion Jim was the man running the show. I gave her Jim’s number, told her he would be very interested in some of her techniques, and hoped for the best.”

His smile turns predatory as he settles it on John. “Saved by the ringtone, Dr Watson.”

“Jesus Christ,” John mutters.

“Jim wasn’t very happy at first, I tell you. He screamed blue murder when he realised he’d been lured away from his precious prey. I had to scour the world for lookalikes – not an easy task, I grant you – for Jim to vent the worst of his spleen on. It turned out the den needed some adapting to fulfil Jim’s needs, so in the end he agreed he ought to be grateful to me.” He laughs. “Poor Jim, seeing as he basically was an ungrateful _sod_. But I was thoroughly done with him. He swept out of the door in a huff, and I decided the time had come for yet another phone call.”

“Ah,” Mycroft breathes. 

“Exactly.” The moustache receives a new bout of self-satisfied fondling. “The weeks Jim wasted annoying the hell out of you, I spent most profitably preparing his fall and your place in perpetual hell. When you finally released him, Jim was ready to kill you, Mr Holmes. Oh, you should have seen the look on his face when I told him his revenge could be so much sweeter. True, it was a bit of a blow to learn his cherished flower had already been plucked, but the thought of whom he would be snatching it from – straight out of the claws of the British government – had him overjoyed. Both his grandfather and his father were IRA-men, you see. He hadn’t exactly been taught to forgive and forget.” 

Moran begins to laugh, a small hiccup at first, but soon his merriment explodes into braying whoops of malice. The napkin is put to use to dab at his eyes, mercifully covering the lecherous leer of his features. At long last he calms down again. “Oh my,” he splutters, “I shouldn’t laugh so hard. It hurts. That damned cancer.” He casts around a look of disgruntlement. “It _was_ funny,” he insists, peevishly.

“Oh, I doubt not,” Mycroft agrees. The yearning to look at Sherlock’s face and watch his reactions to Moran’s disclosure is almost unbearably strong. To relieve his emotion he tugs at his napkin again, hard. “And I must applaud you for your ingenuity, foreseeing Sherlock would want to end it all at St Bart’s. There’s just one more thing I would like to hear before you’ll end this pleasant evening. How did you convince Jim to commit suicide? After all, he’d almost got Sherlock. He only needed to whisk him off, and I would never have been the wiser.” 

“If not for Anthea and her phone,” Moran pleasantly concedes. “What got Jim was his arrogance, of course. He was a genius, remember, same as you and brother dear. Always thinking up too clever schemes. And blind to his own faults, but then that is a failure the whole of mankind suffers from, so I won’t hold that against him. I _used_ it against him, rehearsing the play he was to enact together with Sherlock and suggesting to him to add a little drama by pretending to do himself in. Sherlock would be immobilised by shock and Jim would render him unconscious with the butt of his pistol, ready for take-off, so to speak.”

John shakes his head in disbelief. “God, you’re a sick fuck.”

“Bravo, Dr Watson. A most accurate characterisation. Two weeks ago the doctors informed me of the outcome presaged by the vague pains that have been troubling me. I am, it appears, very sick, and as a result I feel thoroughly fucked up.”

“Could you just get on with it?”

“Why, I’ve nearly reached the end. Jim gave the best performance of his life, his swan song, and he ended it all by pulling the trigger of the pistol I had presented him with earlier that day. Like I told you, Jim didn’t care for the tiny details. Sherlock no doubt would have noted something was slightly off with the distribution of weight in the gun. I had dismantled the weapon and filed away at some of the parts to the exact weight of one bullet, making sure it would still work, of course. My parting present to Jim. Oh, how I would have cherished the look of surprise on his face… Sadly, Sherlock was the only one who got to see it and I’m convinced he didn’t appreciate it nearly as much. I did get to see the look of surprise on _your_ face, though, when Sherlock stepped into the wrong car and that was ample compensation. Nay, it was even better.”

“Well, I must congratulate you,” Mycroft says. “You’ve played an exceedingly clever game and outwitted us all.”

“Yes, I think so too.” Moran rubs his hands. “Well, shall we get on with the next course?  
Roast haunch of venison. I hope you don’t have any moral objections to that. I shot it myself. Sherlock, we’re ready! Don’t forget the wine.”

Sherlock dislodges himself from his wall and swivels to the sideboard where a heavy crystal decanter carafe stands waiting. The perfect weapon to skull Moran with. 

“A _Chateau Petrus 1989_ ,” Moran says. “Hopefully that will meet your high standards, Mr Holmes. After all, it will be the last wine you’ll ever taste.”

“It will do.” 

“Wasn’t that a wine deal at Tesco last spring?” John asks.

“No, it wasn’t,” Moran grunts. “I must say I’m getting rather fed up with your yapping. Your masters should have held you on a tighter leash.”

Meanwhile, Sherlock has drifted over to them and poured the wine into their glasses. He deposits the carafe at Moran’s right hand, close to the remote and floats off again in the direction of the sideboard. Mycroft scrunches his eyes shut in dejected frustration. Sherlock is too far gone, apparently, to have paid attention to Mycroft’s reminiscence of the dinner disaster that never happened. Mycroft will just have to contrive a different plan.

On his knees in front of the sideboard Sherlock is struggling with its contents. 

“Be careful, will you!” Moran shouts, just when Sherlock leverages into a standing position again, staggering under the weight of an outlandishly big haunch with the bone sticking out – surging from a sea of Brussels sprouts and roast potatoes.

“Impressive,” Mycroft comes up with.

“And tasty,” Moran adds. “Come on, Sherlock. What is keeping you?”

Plugging away at holding the tray aloft Sherlock careens towards the table. At six feet from John he sways, stumbles and smashes to the floor, launching a hail of sprouts and potatoes, with the haunch landing just a feet from John’s lap. John doesn’t hesitate; his hand closes on the convenient handle provided by the bone and catapults the meat straight at Moran’s head.

The ex-Colonel’s head snaps back on his neck under the impact. Mycroft throws himself across the table to grab hold of the remote. A quarter of a second later Moran has recovered himself enough to try to grab at him, but by then the device is already sitting snugly in Mycroft’s left jacket pocket. 

“Sherlock,” John is shouting and the next moment all the lights in the room are cut. Bewildered, Mycroft looks around. Immediately a great weight is hurled against him and he crashes to the floor, Moran’s demented features hovering close above him, thrown into hideous relief by the light of the fire. Strong hands are clasped around his neck.

“John… the remote… napkin,” he gasps, desperately tearing at the hands that are like grips of steel, blocking his windpipe. Wildly, he kicks up his knees in an attempt to strike Moran in the back.

There is a loud noise of splintering glass from the window and then all hell breaks loose as bullets start flying into the room. 

“Jesus fucking Christ!” That’s John, and suddenly Moran’s head snaps back for the second time in what can’t have been more than a minute as Mycroft’s painstakingly prepared garrotte is draped around Moran’s neck and pulled tight. The steel grips release their hold – _thank God_ – and Mycroft swivels around. 

Between the table and the fireplace John and Moran are locked in major battle. The ex-Colonel must be as strong as an ox, by now he’s wheezing, eyes bulging in his head, but he has got hold of John’s left arm and is doing his utmost to wrench it from the socket against John’s attempts to strangle him. 

On all fours Mycroft crawls up to the table and reaches for the carafe. “John,” he screeches and belts the heavy crystal against Moran’s skull. John lets go of Moran’s body, Moran’s head lolls sideways on the floor and Mycroft starts hitting him – again, and again, and again, almost in rhythm to the bullets swooshing around them, until all that’s left of Moran’s head is a pulp of flesh and congealing blood and squishy-soft matter adorned with the hairy remains of the moustache.

“Mycroft.” A gentle hand is laid on his arm. John. “Come on, he’s dead, let’s get the hell out of here.”

Blinking quickly Mycroft comes to himself again. He feels uncomfortably hot, this close to the fire. “Sherlock!” he screeches. “Where’s Sherlock?”

“Over here, Mycroft,” he hears Sherlock’s baritone from near the door – for the first time in months – and he wants to sob with relief. “Are you all right?” he calls out, over the increasingly loud clamour of the bullets whisking over their heads. Slowly, he pushes himself up and away from the silent mass beneath him.

“Yes. Yes I am, Mycroft.”

“Sherlock switched off the light,” John says. “Let’s move.” 

“This way,” Sherlock’s voices guides them. Together they crawl in his direction beneath the increasing hail of bullets.  
Near the door, away from the fire, the room is enveloped in darkness. For a second they rest, panting in unison to get their breath back, while the bullets keep whizzing into the room.  
Mycroft grasps for Sherlock’s hand, and almost drops it at his brother’s sharp intake of breath. 

“Sherlock.”

For the eternity of half a second Sherlock remains quiet. Mycroft’s pulse booms in his ears. Then Sherlock replies, “Mycroft.” 

Mycroft squeezes the cold fingers to allay the jumble of emotions welling in his breast. 

“They’ll dare to venture inside, shortly,” he says.

“Christ, yes,” John groans. “We should start searching the house for weapons.”

“No,” Mycroft decides. By now he’s fully regained his usual equilibrium. “We’re outnumbered by far and each of those men is most likely a better shot than either of us, no disrespect intended, John. We’ll go underground.”

“What?” Now it’s John’s turn to screech loudly.

“Have you got the remote, Mycroft?” Sherlock asks, on to Mycroft’s plan already.

“Yes. Did you shed that horrible parka?”

“I got out of it the minute John smashed that haunch into Moran’s face. I stashed it beneath the table.”

“Good. You don’t mind going back down there, do you? If you’d rather not…” he trails off for he realises full well it’s the only chance they’ve got.

“I do mind but at least you’ll be there… and John…” Sherlock laughs softly. “You’re my hero, John, my caring lark.”

“You can tell me all about it once we’re out of here,” John retorts. “Okay. Now!” 

Mycroft pounces on the door handle. They slither through and Mycroft pulls it shut behind them. In the hall Sherlock has already opened the door Mycroft surmised would lead to the servant floor. “Do you really think this is a good idea?” John is asking Sherlock.

“Yes,” Sherlock answers in a decisive tone and almost shoves John inside. Apparently, he’s still got remarkable strength stored beneath his emaciated exterior. Mycroft lays a tentative hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. The skin is damp with sweat and icily cold to the touch. 

_Christ._

“Let’s end this, love,” he says in a calm tone. They shoot through the door and down the stairs. At the bottom John is waiting.

“Which way?” Apparently he has already braced himself for the inevitable. 

“The pantry. To our right,” Sherlock directs.

The pantry is six doors down. A bunch of keys is dangling from the lock of the door. No use for keys when you’re planning to die. Mycroft pulls them out of the lock and uses the key to lock the pantry door behind them. On the other side of the room Sherlock has already opened another door. 

“The key to this door is on that bunch as well,” he says and starts descending a flight of steel stairs. John follows him, the steel ringing as the soles of his boots hit the steps.

Pausing to lock this door behind them as well Mycroft is soon following them. 

Stale, dank air slaps a hand over his nose and mouth when he’s halfway down. “Christ,” he mutters. The grey walls at his side are growing a fine mould of damp. 

_It’s dark and dank, that’s all I can tell you._ Sherlock’s words ring through his head. 

_Prepare yourself for a descent into hell._

The stairs end in front of a steel door. Inside, Mycroft’s gaze latches onto Sherlock, who has collapsed onto a filthy thin mattress laid out on a steel bedstead, bolted to the floor with big screws. John is covering him with a foul-reeking blanket. 

“No. Here.” Mycroft struggles out of his coat. “Use this.”

Sherlock doesn’t react to the sound of their voices, staring ahead of him with eyes devoid of intelligence. In mere seconds he has lost hold of the vestiges of physical and mental strength that helped him to make it through the evening and guide them down here, to burrow in safety while the house above them is teeming with killers. Mycroft clamps down on the gut feeling he’s made a terrible mistake in urging them down here. The alternative would be death. Down here they still have a chance at least.

“He’s in shock,” John says.

“Yes. You’re the doctor, John. Stabilise him.” Mycroft locks the door and falls back against its reliable, steely hardness. Suddenly he’s reluctant to be closer to Sherlock, afraid to approach the bed and discover an empty husk is all that remains of his brother.

John, being his ever calm, caring and gentle self, suffers no such qualms, apparently. He is carefully rearranging Sherlock’s limbs into a comfortable position, in an undertone explaining to Sherlock what he’s doing. “Now I put your right leg just so. That’s better, isn’t it?” He drapes the coat over Sherlock and shrugs of his jacket to cover Sherlock’s lower legs and feet. “What do we do now?” he addresses Mycroft.

Scrubbing his hands over his face Mycroft answers, “We’ll wait until most of them are inside. By now the first ones that came in will have discovered Moran’s body.” He glances around. In here the air is dank as well though less pervasively so than on the staircase. The cell measures twenty feet by twenty feet square, ceiling, walls and floor compounded of whitewashed concrete. A drain sits in the middle of the floor. Splatters of something dark – dried blood? – splatter one wall and the floor beneath it. The soft whirring of a ventilator sounds in the corner opposite the door, the source of the – hardly fresh – air, and the hiding place of the camera, Mycroft presumes. 

Moriarty’s den of pleasure. It’s evident Moran had it thoroughly stripped and adjusted to his own purposes. A bare cell, designed for holding a prisoner, not for entertaining the ward. There is nothing to look at, nothing to do, except slowly go mad. With just the bed for company, and the drain, and the ventilator. 

And the light, Mycroft realises when it’s suddenly cut off. His hand searches the wall next to the door but doesn’t encounter a switch. Of course not, what would a prisoner want with a light switch?

“Goddamn.” John’s exclamation is bad enough but its heartfelt exasperation is at least bearable, unlike the anguished whimper that emerges from the direction of the bed, rising in volume, until the demented screeches of a small animal dangling from the jaws of the predator ring through the room.

“Sherlock!” In an instant Mycroft has stumbled over John’s legs and is at his brother’s side.

“Sherlock, I’m here. I’m with you, you’re safe. We’re all safe. Just a little longer, my heart.” His fingers find Sherlock’s curls, their usual softness hidden beneath a stiff layer of filth; sweat and dried semen and snot and God knows what else and he starts carding his fingers through the revolting mess, patiently unknotting the tangles and caressing the skin of Sherlock’s scalp.

The sound doesn’t abate, each cry a stab in Mycroft’s heart, but he keeps caressing Sherlock’s head while he murmurs, “Sherlock, my dear, dear Sherlock, I’m here now, I’m with you, we’re together, and John’s here as well, that’s good, isn’t?” With his other hand he feels along Sherlock’s arm, his grievously thin arm, until he catches hold of Sherlock’s hand, which is colder than the grave. He guides it up to his lips and starts pressing fervent kisses on it. “You’re safe now, you’re safe,” he whispers. “You’re safe, dear heart, oh my wonderful, wonderful darling. You’ve been so brave. I love you, I love you.” He keeps kissing the hand and caressing his brother’s curls until he imagines the distressed whimpers begin to lessen. 

Next to him John is steadily stroking Sherlock’s side, making soft calming noises as well. His murmurs remind Mycroft he should act to end this nightmare.

“Sherlock. I’m letting go of your hand now,” he says. “We can’t wait any longer. I’m going to set off the bomb. All right, John?”

“Yes, do it.” John’s voice is steady.

“All right.” A last kiss on Sherlock’s knuckles and his hand is searching his pocket for the remote.

Quickly he presses the button two times.

***  
Despite Moran’s boastings to the contrary the cell isn’t entirely soundproofed. A deafening roar above their heads nearly renders their eardrums asunder. Beneath his buttocks Mycroft feels the bed shake. Sherlock’s cries grow louder. “Hush,” Mycroft soothes him, “hush, my darling.”

“Fucking hell,” John says, “we made it.”

“Don’t praise the day before the sunset, John. We aren’t yet aware what’s waiting for us behind that door. Death and destruction, without doubt. However, the question is, how serious is the destruction and are they all dead?”

“There’s only one way to find out.”

“I agree. But I propose we wait a little longer until the dust has settled some more and the survivors have decided they might as well make themselves scarce, as they’re currently out of a job.”

“We can’t wait too long,” John protests. “Sherlock…”

“Yes, John. I realise,” Mycroft interrupts him, picking up Sherlock’s hand again. “Sherlock, I’m still here, you know that, don’t you? Everything is all right now.”

“You’re doing great, Sherlock,” John adds his voice. Together they keep murmuring praise and encouragement until Sherlock quiets down again. Every now and then John’s hand brushes Mycroft in their palliative, steadfast stroking of Sherlock’s side. In the dark they’ve become a throbbing entity, fighting for sanity with each breath, desperate to live.

“I’m going to open the door,” Mycroft announces when he can’t stand the all-pervading blackness and the inactivity any longer.

“I’ll come with you,” John adds immediately.

“Fine,” agrees Mycroft. “You stand here at the ready, John and I’ll open the door. Sherlock, I’m going to open the door. Be prepared, love.”

He yanks open the door and blinks his eyes against the glare of the moonlight streaming into the empty crater that was a staircase a few minutes ago.

“Christ!” John almost shouts. 

“ _Colonel_ Moran didn’t believe in half measures,” Mycroft comments. “All right, you stay here with Sherlock while I go check whether the coast is clear.”

“No,” John says, hotly. “No, you stay here with Sherlock. I’m a soldier, remember? If anyone of them is still out there, all you’ll do is run straight into his arms.”

“Are you certain, John? I dragged you into this.”

“Stop arguing, Mycroft. You know I’m right. Let’s see whether you’ll be able to hear me on my return.”

He steps out into the crater and pulls the door shut behind him. Mycroft pricks up his ears. A faint sound shifts through the door. Mycroft lowers the door handle and opens the door a notch.

“It’s me, Mycroft,” John hisses. “Let me in.”

Mycroft opens the door wider and John steals inside. “I didn’t dare to pummel the door too loudly,” he says. 

“I heard you well enough.”

“I’ll be louder once I come back. Three raps, all right?”

“Three raps, yes. Be careful, John.”

“I will,” John says, and he slips outside again. Mycroft locks the door behind him and fumbles about in the darkness for the bed and Sherlock, who’s whimpering quietly now. He lowers himself onto the foul mattress and drapes his hand over Sherlock’s waist, finding his hand and pulling it up against his chest where he can feel his brother’s heart beating wildly. He pushes his nose into the dirtied hair and breathes deeply. There it is, the essence of Sherlock, his own clean smell. 

“It’s going to be all right, Sherlock,” he says. “Everything is going to be all right.”

***

They lie waiting in the darkness for what feels like hours, Mycroft murmuring nonsense into Sherlock’s curls and Sherlock kicking his legs and crying out every now and then, until Mycroft suspects he’s fallen asleep. He presses a kiss to Sherlock’s nape, luxuriating in the calmness of his breaths.

“Sleep, Sherlock. Sleep, you’re doing so well. Sleep now.”

He glances at his watch. The glowing hands tell him it’s twenty minutes past one. A quarter of an hour has passed since he last checked his watch. However, he forgot to look at his watch when John left so he has no idea how much time has passed.

“Where are you,” he mumbles. “Sleep, Sherlock. Sleep.”

A deafening eruption of noise clangs through the cell.

“Mycroft!” Sherlock bolts upright with the sudden swiftness of a jack-in-the-box. “Mycroft!”

“It’s fine, darling.” Mycroft hugs his brother against his chest with all the tender strength he can muster. “It’s fine. Three raps. That’s John. He’s come back for us. We’re out of here, Sherlock. I’ll just go open the door.”

“Don’t go, please,” Sherlock sobs.

“I’m going nowhere, Sherlock. Not without you. I’m just going to open the door.”

“Don’t leave me.”

“Never. Listen to me, I’m going to open the door now, all right. I’m letting go of you, there, and now I’m getting of the bed, don’t cling to me, Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.” Sherlock is beyond reason, clutching at Mycroft’s arm, hanging on to it like a dead weight, blocking Mycroft’s way to the door.

“Sherlock, please,” Mycroft pleads.

“I’m coming with you.”

“Yes, yes you are. Let go of me, Sherlock.”

Suddenly, Sherlock falls back, a great sigh escaping from his throat. Mycroft dashes towards the door. “I’m just opening the door for John, Sherlock. I’ll be straight back.”

“There’s a car in the boathouse.” John falls into the cell. The beam of a flashlight flares and travels over the walls and the ceiling. “They weren’t all of them dead. They are now.”

For a moment Mycroft is sure he will topple to the ground from sheer relief. Then the impact of John’s words hits him square in the chest.

“John, I’m so sorry.” Mycroft lays a hand on John’s arm. How is he ever going to repay the man?

John shakes of Mycroft’s hand with a casual shrug, quickly striding towards the bed. “Don’t be, they were scum. All of them. How’s Sherlock?”

“I believe he slept for a while.” Mycroft joins them, reaching down to stroke Sherlock’s cheek. “Didn’t you, dearest?” 

Sherlock lies panting, saliva dribbling from his lips. John shines the light of the torch over his legs. “All fine with you, Sherlock?” Sherlock appears to be concentrating on drawing air into his lungs. He doesn’t answer.

“How difficult is it to get out of this crater, John?” Mycroft enquires.

“Not too difficult,” John replies. “There’s a lot of debris, like a kind of steps.”

“Strong enough to hold two men?”

“Do you mean to carry him? I’ve got a better idea, Mycroft,” John declares. “In the boathouse I found a pair of oars. We’ll make a stretcher.”

That sounds like the best idea Mycroft has heard since the opt-out from the Maastricht treaty was negotiated. “Did you bring them?” he urges. “Together with the car?”

“No,” John dashes his high hopes. “I dragged them over here. I can’t drive.” 

Mycroft decides now is not the right time to chide John for a lack of skills basic to surviving in modern society. “You know all about knots, I suppose,” he says instead, the extent of his own knowledge limited to tying his shoelaces, and the eighty-five different ways to knot his tie. Oh, and fashioning a garrotte, of course. He almost forgot.

“Yes. I’ll fetch the oars. Here, hold the torch.”

“No!” The flashlight drops from Mycroft’s hand at Sherlock’s sudden shout, clattering onto the floor with a metallic thud. John is quick to pick it up.

“What is it?” In three strides they’re beside the bed where Sherlock sits hugging the Mycroft’s coat around him. “No, no, no!” he sings, using the double cloth cashmere of the sleeve to wipe at the saliva and snot coating the lower half of his face. His eyes glitter with the fiery glow of Hop Frog’s furnace, the flames leaping up to burn and lay waste the empty place in Mycroft’s chest that held his heart until a second ago. 

“Sherlock,” John is urging him. “Come on, lie down and rest. We’ll arrange it, relax now.”

“No!” With a mighty push of his arms Sherlock shoves John off. “No,” he pants. “No stretcher. I can walk.” His voice rasps but he sounds reasonably sane. In a slow gust Mycroft releases the breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding.

“I don’t think that’s a very good idea, Sherlock,” he objects in his most rational voice.

“I don’t care,” Sherlock growls. The gaze he settles on Mycroft next appears to be relatively lucid. “I was dragged in here against my will, but I’m going to walk out on my own legs.” He sinks back against the wall, exhausted by his declaration of defiance.

“What do you say, John?” Mycroft turns towards John. “You’re Sherlock’s doctor. What’s your advice to Sherlock?”

John shakes his head. “Do you even have to ask? You know what my advice would be under normal circumstances. But this is Sherlock bloody Holmes we’re dealing with here. All right, Sherlock, listen to me. I don’t even understand how you’re still able to talk, and I’m warning you, I won’t deal with any of your shit for the next year or so once we’re back in London. If you’re sure you want to walk out, you can try. But we’re bringing along a stretcher and the moment you slip you’re going to lie down on it, even if I have to punch you in the face to convince you.”

“Fine.” Sherlock concedes with an attempt at his usual imperial wave. “If you insist.”

“Of course I bloody well insist,” John growls, a smile quivering around the corners of his mouth.

“Do you need help?” Mycroft offers. At John’s denial he turns to Sherlock. “You’re the bravest man I know, darling.” Sherlock’s eyes shine brightly at the endearment. “And the most foolhardy,” Mycroft moderates his statement. “Let’s see to dressing you properly, shall we?” he continues, taking off his jacket.

The garment is too wide for Sherlock’s narrow shoulders. Mycroft tugs at the lapels to close them over the bare cold chest that’s rising and falling in quick, irregular convulsions. 

“You’re sure about this?” Mycroft enquires in an undertone.

“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand locks itself around Mycroft’s, which is still busy rearranging the lapel. “I’d nearly given up, Mycroft. You arrived just in time,” he mutters. 

Mycroft’s fingers tighten on the fabric, nearly tearing it in two. “I hope you can ever forgive me for being so sluggish, and incapable, and plain _stupid_ , Sherlock. I should have realised it was Moran. If it weren’t for Anthea…”

“You’re here now, Mycroft.”

“Yes.” Mycroft jerks at the lapels again. “Oh, this is useless,” he groans, exasperated. He wrenches his tie from his neck. “I realise you don’t wear ties, Sherlock,” he says. “My sincere apologies. Please, lift your arms.”

He uses the tie to secure the jacket around Sherlock’s torso. “Hmm,” he evaluates once he’s convinced the lapels will more or less stay in their place. “I doubt whether this arrangement will be lauded as the next fashion statement but it will have to do for now. Let me help you into my coat.”

With Mycroft’s assistance Sherlock leverages to his feet and Mycroft starts wrapping him up in his coat. After he’s closed the last button he gently pushes Sherlock back onto the bed.

“Now you put on my shoes.”

“Mycroft, no! How are you going to walk out there?”

“An excellent question. However, I surmise I’m steadier on my feet than you are. I won’t heed your protests, Sherlock, so you might as well comply,” Mycroft overrides his brother. Luckily Sherlock decides not to waste energy on protesting against an inevitable outcome. Instead, he slumps on the bed and allows Mycroft to put the shoes on his feet. They’re so cold Mycroft considers first dressing them in his socks, but he decides against it. After all, they offer some protection, however feeble. 

“Done,” John exclaims with satisfaction the moment Mycroft has finished knotting the shoelaces. He looks up at them. “Ready to go?”

“Yes,” answers Mycroft for the both of them. “You go first, John. Then Sherlock and I’ll take the stretcher. Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

John throws open the door. Outside the moon is waxing, her enfeebled light barely managing to light the crater. The stars burn all the brighter for it, but their cold flickering doesn’t suffice to lighten their path. John flicks on the torch. “This way,” he says.

The air around them is suffused with the acrid smell of smoke and burning rubble. 

“There were some fires but they’ve probably died down by now. Everything was still sodding wet from that downpour we walked in this morning,” John says. He angles the light of the torch down to the ground. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“Yes.” Sherlock’s baritone rings loud and clear through the night. 

Mycroft cringes; he can hear that Sherlock’s most certainly not all right. However, he wouldn’t aid Sherlock if he forced him to cede and lie down on the improvised stretcher. If Sherlock has decided it’s important to his self-esteem to walk out of the hellhole he’s been buried in all these months, Mycroft will let him. Should his brother stumble and fall, he will reach out for him, prop his shoulder beneath his armpit, and transform himself into Sherlock’s living crutch. Sherlock may be broken, but he will heal. Mycroft will heal him, with John’s help.

***

A white chimera flashes in front of him, Sherlock’s hand, soliciting his.  
Mycroft grasps it and presses the thin fingers, a squeeze to reassure his brother, as well as himself. 

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Phew, I managed to end this story just in time before S3 starts airing.
> 
> Once again, enormous thanks to my wonderful betas wellingtonboots, and especially frozen_delight who was so kind to take over when the story was already well under way.  
> I also want to thank everyone who's been so kind as to leave encouraging comments on a regular basis: rifleman_s and a_phoenixdragon over at LJ and somanyhands, daasgrrl, chasingriver, sherlocked_bootoye and derrida17 here at AO3. Thank you ever so much for keeping it up. :) In doing so you've helped me enormously.


End file.
